Charm City
by StinkoGingko
Summary: Agent Gibbs throws a line into Baltimore Harbor and hooks Detective DiNozzo.  With gratuitous Fornell.  Welcome to Bawlmer, hun.
1. Chap 1 The universe does not take hints

_A/N:_

_1. I do not own the NCIS characters._

_2. This story takes place in the fall of 2001 and references are made to real-life events._

_3. If you've read David Simon's Homicide: A year on the Killing Streets, or seen the series derived from the book, Homicide, and you think there's a bit of an homage here, you're right. If you haven't tried either, please do._

_4. I haven't been in the military or in law enforcement, so please excuse any errors._

_5. I've made Baltimore, a city I know and love, sound pretty rotten, but it has many great neighborhoods and attractions. I'm sorry, hun._

1 The universe does not take hints

August is traditionally the silly season in Washington, DC. Perhaps it's the double dose of heat and humidity, sometimes with an added twist of drought. Perhaps it's the absence of elected officials, who have the good sense to head for milder climes and hopefully generous donors at pig-pickings, fish fries, and traditional chicken dinners.

2001 was no exception. The city was convulsed over the disappearance of Chandra Levy, a comely young intern who had (allegedly) risen from a Congressman's bed and disappeared into the wilds of Rock Creek Park. The city, and the rest of the country, was alarmed by shark attacks and annoyed by poor service on airlines. Congress had skedaddled with a promise to give the airlines a good swift kick in September. No one was doing much about the sharks, but there was a lot of breathless coverage on ZNN.

The Chandra Levy mess was consuming the time and resources of virtually every law enforcement agency in the city—and there were a lot of law enforcement agencies in DC. Everyone from the FBI to Metro to the Park Police had a piece of the scandal pie, whether they wanted it or not. Gibbs was treated to occasional late night calls from Tobias Fornell, whining about the indignity of dodging paparazzi while trailing Congressional aides. Gibbs suspected that Fornell really wanted to whine about his soon-to-be-ex-wife Diane. Gibbs also suspected that Fornell was in deep denial about just soon that ex status was likely to occur, so he listened with something like patience, meaning he left the phone on but down on the table while he kept working on his boat.

NCIS was perhaps the only law enforcement agency that hadn't been pressed into the search for Levy, and experienced agents, watching the news reports of hapless Metro officers tramping through Rock Creek Park, shared a raised eyebrow and a sigh of relief. "You don't think they'll accidentally find a dead Marine in there, do you?" Pacci asked one day.

"I doubt they'll find the creek," Gibbs said. He had no high opinion of Metro.

But the NCIS office was under a different sort of siege. The entire building was being rewired for the 21st century, with fiber-optic high-speed internet thingies, new computers, and enormous flat screen monitors throughout the squadroom. The renovations had begun in the sub-basements, and Abby was thrilled with her new equipment. When she wasn't working she was looking at her most gruesome slides of ruptured body parts, rare mold spores, and odd weapons on the high-def screen, and tinkering with a new version of Photoshop. Some of the results were—interesting. Colorful, at least.

Gibbs was mostly annoyed by the whole thing. He wasn't fond of his old computer and didn't expect the new one to be any better—worse, almost certainly, because if it was capable of doing more things he'd be expected to do more things with it. And he really didn't see the point of the big screens.

"Higher resolution," Abby said. "You can display something from your computer, like if I email you a fiber, and see it larger and much more clearly."

"Most of what we look at are service records and license photos," Gibbs said. "I can see them well enough on my computer." If he could actually learn how to open an attachment.

"You just don't want to learn to work the new remote," Abby said.

True enough. There had been a demonstration a few weeks ago in the conference room, with an eager tech pressing a button here and there to zero in and enlarge individual items. But when Gibbs looked at the remote later on there didn't seem to be "zero in" or "enlarge" buttons, much less any way to tell it which thingy to enlarge. What a waste of money.

It was bad enough to come in in the morning, pull out your chair, and realize some tech monkey was under your desk, muttering about the unstable T1 connection. But the squadroom was being recarpeted and painted as well, in agonizingly slow stages. The carpet guys didn't come on the same days as the painting guys, and neither group seemed to work on Monday, Thursday, Friday, or alternate Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It seemed as if the squadroom would be layered in drop cloths, dust, and piles of carpet squares until 2002.

And the color…Gibbs had no fashion sense and was proud of it, and even he knew the color was a disaster. Director Morrow, not given to outbursts, had taken one look at a finished spot and flushed dark red. Allegedly some angry phone calls had been made. But even Morrow, canny bureaucratic infighter that he was, lost that war. "We're a law enforcement agency," he'd said at the latest staff meeting. "Perhaps international safety orange is appropriate." So the walls slowly—very slowly—got more pumpkiny.

Other changes were being talked about. It was policy for agents to work in pairs, with a more senior agent typically taking a newer agent under his wing and showing the ropes. There was talk of developing a three-man or even a four-man team to handle major cases; there was also talk of investing in specially-designed trucks loaded with evidence gathering equipment, like other departments had.

But it seemed to be mostly talk. In the last few years the agency had occasionally strayed far from its more traditional responsibilities. Major resources had been poured into the Khobar Towers bombing in the last five years and into investigating the bombing of the USS Cole the previous year. Gibbs had had a piece of both of those investigations, and he'd also spent time in Europe undercover, doing some things that he wasn't all that proud of and working with some people about whom he'd developed powerfully mixed feelings. Around the agency, and in Gibbs in particular, there was a sense that it was time to get back to the basic business of investigating crimes involving sailors and Marines. They'd gotten the new electronic toys that every agency was getting, but it didn't seem likely that other new things, like special teams or trucks, would be forthcoming.

Gibbs didn't think much of the three-man or four-man team ideas. A good two-man team should be capable of handling just about anything short of a Khobar Towers situation. But these days Gibbs was mostly a one-man team, as Stan Burley had left nearly five months ago to take an agent afloat slot. Pacci was at loose ends at the moment too, as his latest probie had been given a permanent placing in Norfolk. But Pacci, patient and soft-spoken and slow-moving, was well-suited to the job of easing a probie into the field, and he liked it. He had a fresh probie coming in on October 1, presuming she passed the FLETC final. Until then, he was available to partner up with Gibbs when necessary.

Morrow had been generous initially, telling Gibbs that he'd give him latitude in picking a candidate. The problem was that Gibbs didn't quite know what he wanted in a candidate. No, that wasn't the problem. Gibbs knew what he wanted, and it wasn't a probie, however damned high the FLETC scores were. Stan Burley had been top of his class, and he'd been a good young man. But it had taken three years for him to stop stepping on things at crime scenes or to take enough photos. (It had taken even longer before anyone had gotten around to reminding Gibbs that it was _Stan_ and not _Steve_, but that was another matter.) Burley had done a good job of eventually learning to anticipate what Gibbs would want done next, and he'd turned into a pretty good agent, but somehow he'd never quite developed the—what? Nose? Gut? Something.

Gibbs wanted someone who wasn't a probie, who could work a crime scene and handle a gun and keep his wits when things got hairy. It would also be helpful if he could work the remote. But it would also have to be someone smart enough to realize he still had things to learn, and a willingness to learn from someone without much patience. Gibbs had learned his trade from a master, and he'd picked up a few things more on his own, and he wanted to be sure that what he'd learned got passed on. But his methods weren't gentle like Pacci's. You could learn a lot more from Gibbs, but you couldn't expect an easy time of it. Towards the end Burley had been drinking more Pepto than coffee.

He'd been keeping his eyes open every time he worked outside the agency, but he hadn't seen anyone that impressed. Metro seemed sad where it didn't seem flat-out incompetent, and the suburban forces were, well, suburban, pleasant and slow. He'd even found himself casting glances at Fornell's people—not a good experience. How did FBI agents manage to be both smug and dull at the same time? And where _did_ they all get those awful suits? And why did they all look the same?

Morrow's assistant had kindly transferred applicant files to Gibbs. He'd looked through them but found it impossible to get a sense from paperwork whether what he needed was there. The agency wasn't exactly generous with travel money for applicants. The Pile grew to the point where it threatened the life of any tech monkey unlucky enough to crawl under Gibbs's desk, and it would probably topple when the carpet tile layers got there.

And Morrow was running out of patience. The other day he'd mentioned, again, that a new crop of FLETC candidates would be available October 1. If Gibbs didn't have a candidate by then, Morrow suggested, perhaps the wisest choice would be to just assign him a new FLETC grad. Of course, Morrow said a bit sadly, the most promising candidates would already have offers. Unspoken was the likelihood that Gibbs would spend the next year or five with some kid who couldn't tie his shoes, much less handle a gun without shooting himself or Gibbs.

"You'll find the right guy," Abby said. "If you want something new to come into your life, Gibbs, you have to prepare yourself. Open yourself to possibilities, and one will walk through the door."

"I'm open," Gibbs said. "I've looked at least fifty files."

"You're the least open person I've ever met. Perhaps you should try meditation. Or yoga. To open your third eye."

"I don't have a third eye, Abby."

"Of course you do. You just call it your gut. Okay, meditation's probably not the right thing for you. Or yoga. You have chakras, too, but you're not ready to accept that. Maybe tai chi is the ticket."

"Is that some kind of soup?"

"It's an ancient Chinese form of exercise. Slow, repetitive movements, using rhythm and balance. You see people doing it on the Mall sometimes."

"Those old people in pajamas?"

"It's ancient wisdom, Gibbs. Openness, remember?"

"I'm not dancing on the Mall in my pajamas."

Abby sighed. "Let's try a visualization exercise. Picture your perfect candidate. Focus on that. Focusing your mind is like sending a signal out into the universe, so it can be picked up. What do you see?"

"Someone quiet," Gibbs said. Abby, bless her heart, didn't take the hint. The universe didn't take it, either.


	2. Chapter 2 Not in my Yard

2 Not in my Yard

Late in August, Gibbs came in to find an angry post-it note on his dead computer screen, from Mulvaney in dispatch. Stephanie had apparently tried several times to reach him both on his cell and his desk phone, the prospect of divorce apparently having created false memories of her husband's ability to actually retrieve voice mail. She did have the sense to realize that dispatch would track him down, and perhaps also the sense to realize that dispatch would be really, really angry about being pressed into such unpleasant service. It wasn't often that Mulvaney got to ream out a senior agent, and the post-it note carried a strong whiff of grievance, both his and Stephanie's.

The divorce papers had been prepared months ago, and left on his desk…somewhere. Poor Stephanie. Of his three ex-wives, he felt the worst about her; she was certainly the nicest of the group, and she'd gotten the shortest end of the Gibbs marital stick. She'd been a good egg about the divorce, not wanting anything but to get it over with. And Gibbs had managed to fail her on that, too.

Yes, the papers had been on the desk. Gibbs realized that they were almost certainly under The Pile. He sighed and wondered why he hadn't had the sense to bring two cups of coffee with him this morning. So much for his third eye.

He was dismantling The Pile when Morrow stalked up, his face even redder than when he'd first seen the orange walls. "In my office," he hissed. "Pacci, you too. At once."

At least this wasn't going to be about The Pile. In the director's office, Morrow said, "Petty Officer James Hilson is in Interrogation A." He clicked the remote a few times but neither a feed from Interrogation A nor anything else came up. "Ridiculous toys," Morrow muttered. "Hilson, as I said, is in Interrogation A. He is a docent at the museum and gives tours of the USS Barry as well."

"Must have been a really bad tour," Gibbs said.

"I appreciate your attempt at levity, Agent Gibbs, but this is no laughing matter. At 0730 Petty Officer Hilson was caught smoking methamphetamine outside the museum. Meth," Morrow spat out. "Here. In the Navy Yard. In sight of my office, gentlemen."

"We'll handle it, sir," Gibbs said.

"I don't want you to just handle it, Jethro. I understand that there is a great deal of drug use out in the civilian world. I accept that there is even drug use in the service. But I will not tolerate this sort of insult to the service here at the Yard. You will make no deals with Hilson. And you will pursue this as far as you can. I don't just want the name of some penny ante dealer. Work with whomever you must, and I'll provide what resources you need. But the message must be sent."

"Understood, sir," Gibbs said.

"In my Yard," Morrow muttered again. "On my watch. I will not tolerate this. Go."

Gibbs took a look at Hilson through the one-way glass in Observation. The kid had come down off his high and looked as pathetic as a peeled shrimp. He took the kid a cup of coffee—bad coffee from the canteen, but still—and sat down across from him, leafing through his file. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?" Hilson said.

"I'm not going to lie to you," Gibbs said. "You certainly are. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I wasn't." Hilson sniffled and took a little sip of coffee. "I got dumped a few weeks ago. Carly was…well, it was bad, you know? I was just…I was just…you know. I couldn't get it together. My friend said he had something that would, you know, lift me up a little."

Gibbs had an appreciation of just how bad break ups could be, but smoking meth in the Navy Yard was a level of stupid he had trouble sympathizing with. "Not much of a friend," Gibbs said. "Who is this friend, sailor?"

"His name's Pat Montefiore. I worked with him at Fort McHenry."

"Navy?"

"Yes. We bunked together in Canton for two years. We stayed in touch after I got transferred down here."

"What's he do at Fort McHenry?"

"He gives tours."

Jesus. Tours. Docents. Meth. These young men would be a hell of a lot better off, Gibbs thought, out on a ship somewhere, doing real work. Less likely to get into this kind of trouble. "You bunked with him. You must have known he was a dealer."

Hilson had come down from his high enough to realize he was on dangerous ground. "I didn't know that. He always had extra money, but he said he won it playing bocce."

"What?"

"Bocce. It's kind of like bowling, I think. We lived near Little Italy in Baltimore."

Sure, there must be a professional bocce league somewhere. But Gibbs felt enough residual sympathy for this poor boiled shrimp to let it pass. Giving tourists a trip through the belly of the USS Barry in August might be a little hellish at that. "So how'd you end up with his meth?"

"He comes down to visit every so often. He brought me some stuff…last week. I just tried it once or twice."

And that was probably a lie, too, but Hilson was going to Leavenworth anyway. "You have an address for this Montefiore?"

"Yes."

Gibbs slid pencil and paper over to Hilson, and he wrote down the information. "Montefiore visiting anyone else at the Yard, sailor?"

"I—I don't know."

"You'd better know. The possession charge is bad enough. I don't want to have to write you up for trafficking as well."

"I really don't know. I really don't. He didn't stay with me the whole time. I didn't ask where he was going. I wasn't in the mood."

And the shrimp looked so miserable that Gibbs decided to leave it at that. He wondered if Carly could possibly have been worth all this. Hilson was obviously also wondering. "I was writing a monograph on the Barry's history," Hilson said. "I guess I won't get it finished now."

"There's probably a library at Leavenworth," Gibbs said, wondering what the hell a monograph was.

Gibbs's computer was still dead, and so was Pacci's, but Abby's new T1 connection was stable and, she said, fast as blazes. She also knew how to work her remote, and Patrick Montefiore's vitals were up on her new flat screen in a jiffy. "Look at that resolution," she beamed.

Patrick Montefiore, 26, five-year veteran. Native of Baltimore, two-year degree in public relations, had spent his entire career at Fort McHenry. Excellent service reports, apparently had a good knack for dealing with the public and telling a great yarn about the Rocket's Red Glare. No priors.

Pacci shook his head. "He doesn't look like a good candidate for a major meth dealership."

"It's a small post," Gibbs agreed. "And not a lot of service people going in and out. But there is a small office that might have some sensitive information. We'll need to know what else is going on up there. And where the stuff's coming from."

"Maybe he's cooking it himself?"

"Maybe. But that would have been awful hard for a roommate to miss."

"I think Hilson was lying about not knowing Montefiore's dealing," Pacci said.

"I think Hilson probably knew Montefiore wasn't on the square. But that's not the same thing as living with a meth cooker. Dirty and dangerous. And Hilson doesn't look like the type that likes dirty or dangerous."

"Should we just go pick up Montefiore now?" Pacci asked.

"No. Morrow wants a more thorough investigation," Gibbs said.

"If he hears that Hilson's been busted he may run for it."

"He's from Baltimore. He probably won't go far. But we'll have to cover up Hilson's arrest as best we can for now. Say he's in sickbay. What's he got, Abs?"

"Encephalitis," Abby said after some thought. "You can get it from a mosquito bite. And delirium might be mistaken for a drug high."

"Sounds good." He turned back to Pacci. "Who do we know that knows anything about the drug market in Baltimore?"

"No one."

"Great. I hate dealing with the DEA. This will turn into a six-year investigation with no arrests."

"Why don't you call Fornell?" Abby suggested.

"Fornell doesn't know everything," Gibbs groused.

"But the FBI's bound to have a Baltimore office. He probably knows someone who knows someone."

"Maybe." Gibbs wasn't in the mood to listen to more whining about the Levy case. Or Diane. "Abby, I'm going to need some maps of Baltimore. And the service records of Montefiore's superior and office mates. Maybe we can come up with some reason to nose around the Navy offices there. In the meantime, I just want to get a look at this guy."

"Will do."

"One last question," Gibbs said. "What's bocce?"

"It's kind of like bowling, I think. Italian bowling. Or maybe it's more like horseshoes. They play it in The Godfather."

"Could you make money at it?"

"People bet on everything, Gibbs. If you're going to Baltimore, be sure and stop and Lexington Market for lunch." But Gibbs was gone, and she was left with Pacci and a pile of maps of Baltimore.


	3. Chapter 3  Goombahs at 11 o'clock

3 Goombahs at 11 o'clock

Gibbs drove because Pacci always drove too slowly, and Pacci looked through the pile of stuff that Abby's blazing T1 connection had spit out. "There's not much at the Fort McHenry location," he said. "It's homebase for the USN Comfort. Support for a few reserve units. Recruiting station. I'm not seeing any obvious way for us to show up and not raise suspicion."

Gibbs grunted. "We could investigate the food on the hospital ship. That's bound to be rotten."

"We'd have to investigate every ship in the Navy for that. Want to take a tour of Fort McHenry?"

"Not particularly. The Navy office is close to the civilian docks, isn't it?"

"Across the harbor. But it's a quick trip through the tunnel."

"Where there's docks there's trouble."

"And smuggling. I suppose the meth could be coming in that way."

"I may have to call the DEA after all, damn it. If there's docks, there's got to be Mob activity. Maybe Montefiore's connected."

"Not everyone with an Italian name is connected, Gibbs," Pacci said stiffly.

"I know. But not everyone with an Italian name is dealing meth, Pacci. What the hell is a docent, anyway?"

"I think it's a fancy name for tour guide."

"I can't believe there's active service personnel giving tours. There must be real work for them to do."

"It's peacetime," Pacci said.

"Tell that to the dead sailors on the Cole."

Pacci didn't answer. You had to be brave or bored to bring up the word "terrorism" around Gibbs. Mike Franks had ranted about it for a decade and had still been ranting on his way out the door. Gibbs had taken up the habit, at lower volume and frequency, but with no less vehemence.

After a bit of silence, Gibbs said, "I don't associate the Mob with meth. I thought the big labs were still Mexican and still out in the central valley of California."

"I don't either, but the Mafia's always been flexible about money making opportunities. Hmm…Gibbs, you might be onto something after all. Montefiore's father is a union steward over at the docks."

"There's still plenty of meth production in Mexico," Gibbs mused. "It could be coming in that way rather than trucked across country."

"You know, if that's the deal, we're going to have to pull someone else in. I know Morrow wants all efforts, but we aren't like to bust a major smuggling operation on our own."

"You need more coffee in your diet," Gibbs said.

They took a spin around the Navy installation at Fort McHenry. Montefiore's red Pontiac was parked on Halsey. "He's docenting, I guess," Pacci said.

"Then I guess we've got time for lunch." They drove up to Fells Point, got sandwiches and plenty of coffee, and headed back to Halsey. "We'll see what Montefiore Meth gets up to after hours."

Just after 1700 a spic-and-span sailor, in whites, got into the red Pontiac. "That's our guy," Pacci said.

"Public affairs," Gibbs grunted. "Jesus." He gave Montefiore a bit of a head start and then followed.

Montefiore lived in Canton, on the other side of the harbor, in a narrow formstone-fronted rowhouse on a street packed with them. He parked out on the street and went in. Gibbs found a space a few houses down on the other side of the street and pulled in. "We should have gotten something cold to drink," Pacci said. "It must still be over 90 degrees."

"We can't sit here with the engine running," Gibbs said.

And sit they did, in the dull still air of Canton. Montefiore was either in for the night or waiting for the cool of the evening. There was a bit of traffic on the street, but though there were plenty of stoops, no one was sitting on them. "This must be the air conditioned part of Baltimore," Pacci said. "I thought everyone sat on stoops up here. God, it's hot in here. This must be the 10th straight day in the 90s."

Gibbs thought about telling Pacci that it would be a lot hotter in the trunk but remembered that Pacci wasn't a probie and you couldn't put senior agents in the trunk. And then he noticed two men walking up the street towards Montefiore's house.

Pacci said, "Goombahs at 11 o'clock. Tracksuits in this kind of weather. They must all watch The Sopranos."

"It's to hide the guns," Gibbs said. "Sopranos? Like opera?"

"It's a show about the New Jersey Mafia," Pacci said. "Even I have cable, Gibbs."

One of the two looked straight from Central Casting, short and dark and heavy, his hair in an elaborate pompadour. The other was younger and taller, slimmer and fairer, his hair in a less elaborate pompadour. They both wore dark sunglasses, though the sun was setting. The short one was about to mount Montefiore's stoop when the younger man stopped him. Even through the dark glasses Gibbs knew he was looking straight into their car. The shorter one turned away, and they both continued their stroll up the street. The younger one took another look into the car as he passed and smirked a little.

"Made already," Pacci said. "That was quick."

"They're not usually that smart," Gibbs muttered. You'll regret that smirk, he thought. I'll remember you.

"Should we stay?"

"No," Gibbs said. "We've got an idea where Montefiore's getting his meth. We'll start digging and come back tomorrow. When we get back to the office you call Narcotics at Baltimore PD and tell them Montefiore's a person of interest for us. I'll call Fornell. He may not know Baltimore, but he knows Mob."

The heavier set man said, "You sure they're cops?"

The younger one said, "They're Feds."

"Why you so sure?"

The younger man thought: Because I've worked four months to get this close, and of course some Fed is going to swoop in and steal my collar. But what he said was: "Two white guys with bad haircuts sitting in a dark sedan with DC plates? They're Feds."

"Feds usually wear suits."

"It's hot out. Feds sweat like everyone else."

"We're supposed to talk to Montefiore today, Tony."

"We'll catch up with him later. After they're gone."


	4. Chapter 4 Not a two man job

4 Not a two-man job

"Baltimore," Fornell whined. "I wish I could go to Baltimore with you. We could eat BLTs from the Lexington Market like the real cops do. Or better still, get crabs at Phillips. They're still in season."

"I don't understand why everyone loves crabs," Gibbs said. "So much work, so little food."

"I wouldn't expect a man who considers a cold can of beans to be a meal to understand. One of these days you're going to make some gastroenterologist a millionaire."

"I'm interested in the Mob, not millionaire doctors."

"Ah, the Baltimore Mob. Interesting that topic should come up. I had a query about them a few months back from Baltimore PD."

"Why were they interested?"

"There's a bit of shooting war going on, as I understand. The Baltimore Mob is a sad, vestigial thing these days, Jethro."

"Speak English, Fornell."

"Their glory days are behind them. The docks were their bread and butter, but the Baltimore dockyard is dead nowadays—they don't do much besides unload shiny BMWs for DC lobbyists to lease. The state lottery killed the numbers game. They never had the garbage contracts, and there's not much construction in Baltimore City these days. I think they still have a piece of the vice game down on the Block."

"Drugs?"

"Did very well in the 70s and 80s when the carriage trade wanted very pure cocaine and was willing to pay very good money for it. They're probably still handling the carriage trade for prescription drugs. But crack ruined the old drug markets. Crack, meth, and cheap heroin. Now everyone's in the drug business. I hear the margins are terrible."

"Meth?"

"My understanding is that's what the shooting war is about. Rising local talent going against the dinosaurs."

"So why isn't the FBI there?"

"Priorities. You know that Freeh got caught up in the Khobar Towers investigation. Our organized crime work was a lower priority. And I'm hurt that you didn't send a thank you note when we brought in those Khobar indictments."

"I'm not interested in indictments. I'm interested in incarcerations."

"You're not really interested in incarcerations, Jethro. Sadly, we can try in absentia but we can't punish in absentia. But you never know. We tracked Kasi for four years and got him in the end. Anyway, priorities. Baltimore just didn't seem to fit."

"But the shooting war?"

"It's Baltimore. It's nowhere near as bad as it was the late 80s, when the crack dealers discovered automatic weapons."

"The Mob can't be that sad if they're shooting it out. And I think they might be importing some new talent."

"That would make things interesting. Why do you care about the Baltimore Mob?"

"We caught a petty officer smoking meth in the Yard. His dealer is from Baltimore, and he's got Mob connections."

Fornell laughed. "Oh, Jethro. Taking down the Mob isn't a two-man job, even if one of the men is you. It takes months, sometimes years, of research, planning, learning the connections, wiretapping…and you _have_ to have someone inside. No one will ever take you for a goombah."

"I've got Pacci," Gibbs said.

"A straighter arrow never walked the earth. He'd be even less convincing than you. Well, I look forward to hearing about your adventures in mob-busting."

"I'll still be having more fun than you," Gibbs said. "Go through anyone's trash today, Tobias?"

"That extra B really is for bastard, isn't it? I'd better go. Diane hates it when I talk to you."

"Keep an eye on your bank account."

Gibbs and Pacci were in the office by 7am, gearing up for a day of poking around Pat Montefiore's life. Abby had searched the Baltimore papers online for stories about the reported shooting war but hadn't turned up much. "Not everything's online yet, Gibbs," she said.

"Do we still have any interns around?"

"I think there's one in legal."

"Good. Send the lawyer to the library and let him dig through the real newspapers. And Abby, see if that T thingy can turn up anything more about the Baltimore mob or organized crime in meth production."

They were almost out the door when Pacci's cell rang. The conversation was brief. Pacci was pale when it was done. "That was a Homicide detective in Baltimore. Montefiore's dead."


	5. Chapter 5 Two Freds in Gold Top country

5 Two Freds in Gold Top country

Gibbs ground his teeth throughout the drive to Baltimore. Driving slowly enough for Ducky and Gerald to stay in sight didn't ease his fury. "Those goombahs made us last night, and they killed Montefiore for it. We should have stayed on him."

"It was a reasonable decision, Gibbs. We weren't prepared to sit on him all night, and we don't know what really happened to Montefiore."

"I don't believe in coincidences."

They drove into a far northwestern corner of Baltimore City, with Abby navigating them on the phone for the last 20 blocks. Gibbs couldn't recall a more desolate urban scene. The rowhouses had probably looked like the ones in Canton sixty years ago, but none looked as if they had been repaired in those sixty years. Windows were boarded or empty, stoops crumbled, railings, gutters, and every other bit of metal stripped away. Here and there were gaps where units had burned down and never been replaced. There was a lot of graffiti, much of it gold and metallic.

A police car, an unmarked sedan, and a blue crime scene van were parked at the mouth of an alley not far from the intersection. A few looky-loos were hanging on the corner, only half-interested in the official doings.

They found a short, heavy man with a head of tightly curled graying hair, his face already shiny with sweat, in a rumpled plaid cotton shirt and khakis, smoking. With him was a tall thin African-American, wearing a suit and the air of sad gravity appropriate to an undertaker. "You the navy cops?" the short one asked.

"Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS," Gibbs said. "This is Special Agent Pacci."

"Gibbs, huh?" The short one looked at Gibbs, who was impassive and upright. "They call you Mister Tibbs?"

Gibbs suspected this was a joke of some kind but didn't get it, and his face stayed impassive, if a bit more impatient.

The tall thin man smiled; the smile lit up his sad face to a surprising degree. "You made a movie reference, Fred. Kid's rubbing off on you."

"And if you ever repeat this story, Fred, you're on water taxi duty forever."

"You know I get seasick, Fred."

"All right, meter maid." The fat one stubbed out his cigarette and started another one. "I'm Detective Sergeant Fred Friendly, Baltimore Homicide. This here's Detective Sergeant Fred Figarello."

"Two Freds are better than one," Figarello said.

"What can you tell me?" Gibbs said. He was already tired of the vaudeville act.

"Not much. They're installing a cellphone tower up there on Reservoir. Apparently someone got up high enough to see this guy in the alley."

"No one reported hearing shots?"

"In this neighborhood? They'd be calling in every 15 minutes. You're more likely to hear gunfire than the ice cream truck. Officer Brady."

A uniform stepped up. "Yo."

"Give these nice federal agents a tour of the neighborhood."

Brady started pointing at houses. "Vacant. Vacant. Gone. Vacant. Squat. Stash house. Vacant. Squat. I think some real people live in that last one."

"Stash house?" Gibbs said. "You ever actually patrol this neighborhood?"

"Sure," Brady said. "We clear the corners regular. But they've got runners and lookouts all over."

"You talk to any of the neighbors?" Pacci asked.

"What neighbors?" Brady said. "People around here don't talk to police. That's a one-way ticket to the morgue."

"Welcome to Charm City," Friendly said. "Land of the misdemeanor homicide."

Ducky came through, gave a disapproving look to Friendly and his cigarette, and bent over the body. "The blood flow is consistent with his being shot here. The right amount, and no drag marks or footprints."

"Time of death?"

"I'd say between midnight and 1am."

"Officer Brady here noticed the dogtags. When he called the name in we heard that you were interested in this guy, so we called you. Lemme guess. Drugs?" Friendly asked.

"Why would you think drugs?" Gibbs asked.

"You called Narcotics. And trust me, no clean-cut white guy's up here, dead or alive, unless he's a police or looking for drugs."

"Or cellphone towers, Fred."

"Or cellphone towers."

"We have reason to think he was dealing," Pacci said. "We had just opened an investigation."

"Opened an investigation?" Figarello frowned. "They have time to investigate dealers, Fred."

"I wish," Friendly said. "So, you wanna take this guy or not? Our coolerator's full up."

"This is a dead sailor," Ducky said. "A little respect, please."

"This is a dead drug dealer, and I got more of them than I can handle. Our budget year doesn't start over until October 1, and most of my squad's stuck on desk duty until we got money for overtime. One of my best guy's been on a damned special detail for four months. We just caught two shootings and a stabbing, all open, right now. Dog days. They fall faster than we can bag 'em."

"Oh, Fred, that stabbing's going down."

"Really? Joe Bob didn't have the sense to ditch the Harley?"

"He didn't even the sense to ditch the license plates. Or the knife. A statie picked him up outside Hagerstown this morning."

"A statie." Now it was Friendly's turn to smile, and his face lit up too, though a cynicism still hung at the corners of his upturned mouth. "Why can't they all be Billies? Thank God they're stupid, Fred."

"We do catch a break sometimes, Fred."

"Yes, the Good Lord's watching over Baltimore. So: Do you want this guy?"

"Yes, we want this guy," Gibbs said. "We think there may be some Mob involvement."

"Up here?" Friendly said. "This here is Gold Top territory. The Mob ain't up here."

"Gold top?" Gibbs asked.

"The local entrepreneurs."

"And this isn't a Mob hit," Figarello said. "What have we got here, thirteen casings? Only three hits? That's a Gold Top kid with a brand new Tec 9."

"They do love their Tec 9s," Friendly said. "With the 20-round mag."

"Our Mob likes to dump their bodies in the harbor. Let the crabs get a good meal," Figarello said. "This is much too messy for them."

"Maybe Baltimore's bringing in some fresh hitters that aren't so neat," Gibbs said.

"It's not Mob," Friendly said. "Investigate this all you want, Tibbs, but don't go poking around Mike Macaluso for this one."

"I hear you've got a shooting war," Gibbs said. "Between the Mob and these Gold Top guys."

"That we do, and I suspect your sailor's got in the crossfire. But like I said, your killer's up in this neighborhood somewhere."

"I'll go where the evidence leads," Gibbs said.

"It'll lead right back here."

"You telling me to stay away from Macaluso?" Gibbs asked. His gut was rumbling for sure. "Maybe Macaluso pays you to warn Feds away?"

Friendly laughed, but it wasn't a funny laugh. "Yeah, you got two detective sergeants standing on the corner of Gold and Etting because they're getting fat on the Macaluso pad."

"Fred," Figarello said. "Agent Gibbs, it's a delicate situation right now."

"And you Feds are a herd of elephants."

"Fred," Figarello said again. "It's not too late to catch an egg sandwich at Lex. I'll treat."

Friendly looked up. "Gonna be another 90-90. The Orioles are away. I smell a disrespect cutting by 3pm." He closed his eyes, lifted his head, and sniffed the humid air. "In the Central. Over an ice cream cone."

"Someday there really will be a disrespect cutting over an ice cream cone."

"And it'll warm the cockles of my cold black heart."

"And I'll owe you 20 bucks."

"Which you'll never pay, Fred."

"I offered to buy you breakfast, Fred."

Friendly sighed. "Twenty-five years on the force and I got two sergeants answering calls because I haven't got fresh detectives. You're buying me coffee, too, Fred."

Friendly got in the car, but Figarello lingered. "I'm serious about the Macaluso situation being delicate. If you have to go poking around there, get in touch with us first. I can't stress how serious this is."

"I know my job," Gibbs said.

"But you don't know ours," Figarello said. He waved, and the uniform and the evidence techs all moved away.

"What attitude," Pacci said. He sounded half admiring. "Why is there always a short fat guy and a tall thin one?"

"Like Laurel and Hardy. Or Abbott and Costello," Ducky said. "Although their humor fell far short."

"I can never remember which is which," Pacci said.

"The short fat one is always the choleric one," Ducky said.

"Chol what?" Pacci asked.

"Chol nothing," Gibbs said shortly. "At least they didn't mess up the crime scene."

"He's right about all the casings," Pacci said. "A whole lot of wasted ammo."

Gibbs was remembering the younger man in the tracksuit. Probably the type to spray an automatic weapon carelessly.

"You think that whole Macaluso thing was hinky?" Pacci asked.

"Oh, yes, I do."

"I assume we're not going to stay away."

"Oh, no, we're not."

"And we're not going to call BPD first."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "No cellphone tower here yet," he said. "Canvass the neighborhood, Pacci. Start with all the spectators. I'll shoot and sketch."

But the spectators had melted away, and Pacci walked up and down the block without encountering a soul. Ducky and Gerald bagged Montefiore and headed back to DC.


	6. Chapter 6 Anthony DiComo

6 Anthony DiComo, late of Cleveland

Someone at BPD had had the sense to send a uniform over to Canton to guard Montefiore's rowhouse. Gibbs sent him off, grateful that the uniforms in Baltimore apparently traveled without straight men, and they got to work. The house itself was unremarkable, and there was no evidence that Montefiore had been cooking meth on the premises. Gibbs eventually tipped open a box and found Montefiore's stash. They fingerprinted a few obvious surfaces. Pacci also found a box with metal balls, some as big as softballs. "I think these are bocce, Gibbs."

"We'll take them too." And Gibbs had the whole drive back to figure out how to tell Morrow that they'd lost their dealer-suspect and stepped into a hornet's nest with the local LEOs—but hey, they'd found a stash and some bocce balls, and cellphone reception in Gold Top country would be pretty good in a day or two.

They dropped off their meager haul, managed to avoid Morrow, and went back to Baltimore to start the business of tearing apart Pat Montefiore's life. Their first stop was the parents' house in a tidy neighborhood just north of the touristy part of Little Italy.

Montefiore senior didn't look much like a longshoreman, small and thin, but he had a hard face and hard eyes only a little softened by obvious grief. The softness went away entirely when Gibbs raised the subject of drugs.

"Pat was a good boy," Montefiore said. "Never in trouble, never once. Five years in the Navy, never a black mark against him. No way was he using drugs."

"He was killed in a neighborhood controlled by a drug gang."

"His car's missing, too," Montefiore said. "You ever think he just got carjacked?"

"It's very unusual for carjackers to transport their victims and kill them elsewhere."

"Up by Reservoir all sorts of crazy things happen."

"But it's what your son was doing up by Reservoir," Gibbs said. He changed tack. "Do you know a man named Michael Macaluso?"

The hard face got harder. "Sure, I know Mike. Everyone around here knows Mike. My old man knew his old man. Our grandfathers came from the same part of Calabria. What's your point?"

"Did your son spend much time with him?"

"I don't think so. They might play a little bocce every now and then. Like I said, everyone knows Mike. But Pat spent most of his time with his Navy friends. And some younger guys from the neighborhood."

"Names?"

"Who knows? Just young guys. They play pool, they play basketball. I don't take names."

"If you know Macaluso then perhaps you know he's involved in the production and sale of methamphetamines," Gibbs said.

"So you say," Montefiore snorted. "A successful guy has an Italian name and of course he's crooked."

"Any chance your son was working for Macaluso? Selling drugs?"

"You get out of my house," Montefiore said. "What's the matter, you already given up on solving this? Or you just don't care? What's one more dead wop? Still a wop even in a uniform, huh?"

"We have to ask, Mr. Montefiore," Pacci said. "There's some evidence that your son might have been involved in drug trafficking."

"I don't care about your evidence. I know my son. You think his mother should hear this? You get out."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Pacci said. "I know this is a bad day for you. Take my card. Call me if there's anything you think might help us."

"I'm not helping you," Montefiore said, and he didn't take the card.

Back in the car, Pacci asked, "You think his father really doesn't know about the drugs?"

"He knows Macaluso's dirty. But he really might not have known about the dealing. We'll have to cover the funeral, see if we can get the names of those neighborhood buddies."

Back at Fort McHenry, Montefiore's coworkers' denials generally seemed more believable, though Gibbs thought that a few of the younger men looked uncomfortable. Montefiore had to be selling to some of them; poor peeled shrimp Hilson couldn't have been his only customer. Time to send for the pee cups and see who turned up dirty.

"We didn't get much," Pacci said as they drove south on 97.

"No," Gibbs admitted. "We'll have to hope that we get lucky in the lab."

The next morning Gibbs checked in first with Ducky. Cause of death: the three gaping holes in Montefiore's chest. Interesting info not known before: he had been restrained, with some force, prior to death. Likelihood was that he hadn't driven to that desolate corner on his own. Probably two men, Gibbs thought, remembering the men in tracksuits. And the sad likelihood was that the red Pontiac, and any evidence it might have held, had already been cut down into a thousand pieces, or had been abandoned and torched somewhere.

"That detective mentioned a shooting war," Ducky said. "Abigail said that she had turned up very little in the electronic databases. I also think the intern was unsuccessful. I took the liberty of calling a friend in the ME's office in Baltimore. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. Especially if you learned something useful."

"The ME thinks there are at least eight murders over the last year that are connected to this alleged drug war and probably more, given that the Mafia side is more likely to dispose of their handiwork in the harbor."

"Why so little coverage?"

"Well, killings that are obviously drug-related don't get much press. It's true here, too, Jethro. It's more likely to be on page 6 of the local section, in small type, than on the front page. But there was something of a shoot-out several months ago in an area called the Block, I believe."

Gibbs smiled. "Yes, that's one Baltimore neighborhood I have heard of. Strip clubs, that sort of thing."

"Five wounded, two dead. One was a man from the suburbs who was, I believe, lost."

"That's what they all say."

"Not all," Ducky said primly. "Since then the killings have picked up but they haven't been nearly so public. I've got the names here. You might want to ask the Baltimore Police for information. Though of course you would know that."

"I would. And I will." Eventually. "Thanks, Duck. That was good thinking."

"Where's my Jolt?" Abby asked when Gibbs came into the lab.

"They were out. Try this, it's new. The guy at 7-11 says it's better than Jolt."

"Caf-Pow," Abby said. "Sounds ridiculous. Still, any caffeine in a storm." She took a sip. "It's okay, I guess."

"Have you got anything for me, Abs?"

"Since I've got my fix, let's talk about drugs. Montefiore's stash is an odd mix. A fair amount of pharmaceuticals, mostly oxycontin, but also Quaaludes, amyl nitrite, Viagra, Valium, percocet, GBH. Mostly party stuff. But all active and good quality."

"Fornell said the Mob handles the carriage trade for pharmaceuticals."

"At least this Mob guy did. The meth's a different matter. Some of it is quality stuff, probably made in a real lab with good precursor chemicals."

"Mexican?"

"Probably. This was made in big commercial size batches. But there's also a stash of homemade stuff, probably made from over the counter antihistamines."

"There was no evidence that he was cooking at home."

"Well, someone is. It's active, and it'll get you high, but it's the stuff that gets sold on street corners to real junkies."

Gibbs thought of the neighborhood around Gold and Etting. "So he was working both sides of the street. That's a dangerous play when a shooting war's going on."

"Maybe. Of course a lot of dealers start out selling the high grade stuff and switch to the junk when the customer's hooked."

"I like my version better. What about the fingerprints?"

"The fingerprints from the door and the kitchen were pretty fresh, but I haven't gotten any hits off them from AFIS or local criminal files. I'm running them nationally now. The fingerprint from the stoop railing belongs to…" Abby clicked her remote, and the face of the shorter, heavier tracksuit man turned up. "Steven Otanto, aged 34, native of Baltimore."

"Priors?"

"Teensy stuff. A few bar fights, a DUI. Not exactly a heavy hitter."

And from the looks of it, not the brains of the operation, either. "Anything else?"

"Do you know what this is?" Abby asked, holding up one of the metal balls.

"It's a bocce ball?" Gibbs guessed.

"So close. This little one is actually called a boccino. The bigger ones are the actually bocce balls. Did you know that bocce goes back to at least Roman times?"

"And I hear they played polo with severed heads. Is this going somewhere?"

Abby took a sip. "Of course it is, Gibbs. This is a very fine set, Gibbs. They can be made of plastic but these are metal."

"So?"

"So it's an excellent surface for picking up fingerprints." She clicked her remote again. "I give you Anthony DiComo, late of Cleveland."

Gibbs smiled. Apparently the pompadour was popular in Cleveland, too, for although the mug shot was dated 1999, the hairstyle was the same. I got you now, Gibbs thought. "What's his record?"

"Three arrests for assault, one for extortion, one for attempted murder."

"Weapon?"

"The attempted murder was with a gun."

"How much time did he do?"

"As far as I can tell, none."

"Acquitted?"

"Never tried."

Gibbs whistled. "He must have had some serious pull in Cleveland. What the hell is he doing in Baltimore?"

Pacci had joined them. "There was a big scandal in Cleveland a year or two ago. Cases were getting lost or dismissed for no good reason. A couple people from the DA's office went down for it. They brought in a US attorney to take over and clean up."

Gibbs said, "You follow these cases?"

"I'm from Akron, Gibbs. I know a few guys out there."

"See if anyone knows this guy. So he's in Baltimore looking for work."

Pacci frowned. "Cleveland was probably too hot for him, but Baltimore's an odd destination. Youngstown, or Toledo, or even Pittsburgh. But there's no connection between Baltimore and those midwestern cities."

"Things are tough all over," Gibbs said.

Abby took a long pull on her drink. "I've never seen a Mob guy that looked like that."

"He's northern Italian," Pacci said. "Como's a lake up north. Lots of people up there are blue-eyed. But that's another strange thing. Macaluso's Calabrian. They don't take to outsiders."

"They've taken to this one," Gibbs said.

"He just doesn't look like a mook to me." Abby grinned. "I'm seeing with my third eye, Gibbs."

Gibbs shook his head. "You just think he's good-looking, Abs. If you'd seen his eyes you'd know better."

"Well, he is cute. With a different haircut and a few tats he'd be _very_ cute."

"He's Mob muscle," Gibbs said. "Don't worry, he's got tats."

"His record says no distinguishing marks."

"Well, maybe that's a Cleveland thing, too. You got an address?"

"Of course. And a map."

"We should go pay a call on Mr. DiComo," Gibbs said.

Abby was finishing up her Caf-Pow. "One more thing, Gibbs. No, wait, two things. Are you working with BPD on this?"

"Not if I can avoid it."

"Whatever you do, don't let them get their hands on any evidence. Bring everything back here."

"I would anyway, but why, Abs? Are things disappearing in Baltimore, too?"

"It's not that. This is really hush-hush right now, but I heard it from a tech in Baltimore County. Apparently the grand jury in Baltimore City is investigating allegations about contamination in the BPD lab."

"Serious allegations?"

"I don't know the details, but my friend heard it was a clearcut case—something really obviously messed up. It sounds more like incompetence than corruption. But they're trying to keep a lid on it for as long as possible. The rumor is that there'll be an indictment pretty soon. So don't give them anything till I've seen it."

"What a mess," Pacci said. "One allegation like that and they could be fighting over every conviction from the last ten years."

"We won't give them anything," Gibbs promised. "What was the other thing?"

"The other thing…? Oh, right. Bring me another one of these when you get back. I kinda like it."


	7. Chapter 7 A bum arrest

7 A bum arrest

Mr. DiComo, late of Cleveland, had an address that put him at the far eastern end of Little Italy, where the fashionable restaurants gave way to more narrow blocks of rowhouses. Certainly not in walking distance of Montefiore's house in Canton. "We gonna arrest this guy, Gibbs?" Pacci asked. "We don't have much."

"Maybe not for an arrest," Gibbs said. "But he's coming from a town where he never had to worry much. He's not used to Federal agents. I think we can rattle him."

"The last time we rattled him Montefiore got killed."

"Thanks for reminding me," Gibbs said.

There was no answer at the house, and the car registered to DiComo wasn't parked on the street. "A black Corvette," Gibbs said. "These guys are so predictable."

"It's actually a '90 Corvette—first year with the ZR-1."

"The what?"

"An engine designed by Lotus." Pacci sighed. "I keep forgetting you're not a car guy. I wouldn't mind a ZR-1."

"But you would mind selling meth to get one."

"Well, sure. I should go around and see if it's in the alley. I'm not sure I'd park a ZR-1 out here anyway."

"He's connected. No one's stealing his car."

"I'd be more worried about someone backing into it."

Pacci came back a few minutes later. "It's back there."

"So maybe DiComo's in the neighborhood." Gibbs looked around. "I think the corner pizza parlor might be a good place to start."

"It might be a good place to get something to drink," Pacci said. It was already edging into the 90s again.

Gibbs relented and bought Pacci both a slice and a Coke, and a coffee for himself. Then he flashed the badge. "I'm looking for an Anthony DiComo," he said, and showed the picture.

"Sure, I know him," the man behind the counter said. "But it's early for him. Those boys don't usually come in until the late afternoon. Why you looking?"

"We need to speak with him. In connection with a murder," Gibbs said.

"I don't know anything about his business," the man said. "And I don't want to anything about his business."

"Does he know anything about Mike Macaluso's business?"

"Like I said, I don't want to know."

"Any idea where he might be right now?"

The girl behind the counter piped up. "He's probably over at Patterson Park playing basketball."

The man turned. "And you know this how?"

"Oh, pop," she said. "He's a nice guy."

"He's not a nice guy and neither are his friends, and I don't want you hanging around him. He's too old for you anyway."

"Oh, pop," she said again.

The man turned back to Gibbs. "Her sister? An honor student at Loyola. This one? It's not enough that she has six holes in her ears. No, she likes serving pizza to wiseguys that do nothing but play basketball all day and pool all night."

With a gentleness that few saw, Gibbs said to the girl, "Your father's right. He's not a nice guy."

"He's nice to me, and he's a good tipper. And he drives a totally hot car." She sighed. "I wish I could go play pool at Vincenzo's some night."

"They don't let girls with six holes in their ears in at Vincenzo's," the man said.

"Patterson Park?" Gibbs asked.

"Thataway, about six blocks," the girl said. "You can't miss it."

There were few cars in the lot, but all six courts were in use, and a fair-sized crowd hanging around. It wasn't hard to pick out DiComo. He was playing against three young black men, teamed up with the short fat guy from the other night and a tall, heavy-built older man. The short fat guy was mostly taking up space, the older man was only good enough to muscle in for a layup or a rebound occasionally.

Yet it was still a game, because DiComo played with a professionalism that the others lacked. Even Gibbs, who wasn't a fan, could see that. When his big guy was open DiComo's passes were crisp and precise, and when the big guy wasn't open, he shot, even with two hands in his face. And he was arrogant enough to start backpedaling down court before the ball even went through the rim.

"Wow," Pacci said. "That's a Reggie Miller shot."

"Who?"

Pacci sighed. "I keep forgetting you're not a sports guy, either."

When they got out of the car, a wave of "Five-O" rippled over the courts, and players and crowd all melted away. DiComo and his mook friends didn't. DiComo picked up the ball and walked over, smiling that cold little smirk. "Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence," Gibbs said.

DiComo's smirk deepened. "That's from Goldfinger."

"Gold what?"

"Goldfinger. It's a James Bond movie."

"I'm not James Bond," Gibbs said.

"I didn't think you were."

"I'm Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. This is Special Agent Pacci."

The other two mooks had also walked over, but hung back. "NCIS?" DiComo said. "Is that a typo? Isn't it CSI? You got Grissom in the trunk?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Gibbs said. He'd expected a wiseguy act but not that it would be _this_ annoying. Was everyone in Baltimore waiting for a rimshot?

"Did you take a wrong turn at the harbor?" DiComo asked.

"We're here about Petty Officer Patrick Montefiore."

The smirk disappeared for a moment. "Yeah, I heard about Pat. Sad. He was a nice guy."

"We'd like you to come back to the Navy Yard for an interview."

"An interview?" The smirk was back now. He set the basketball spinning on an index finger. "I don't think so. I've got plans for the afternoon."

"We found your prints at Montefiore's house," Gibbs said.

"No, you didn't," DiComo said. "I've played pool and bocce with Pat a few times. That's it."

"We can arrest you if you prefer."

"You have a warrant?" When there was no response, DiComo set the ball spinning again. "Didn't think so. But if I see you again, just remember: third time is enemy action."

"Are you _threatening_ me?" Gibbs snarled.

"It's from the movie," DiComo said.

"Hey, listen," Pacci said, and he stepped forward, probably intending to try and calm the situation. But he stumbled into DiComo, the ball fell, and DiComo pushed Pacci back roughly. That was enough for Gibbs. The struggle was sharp but short, and it ended up with DiComo pushed up against the car, with Gibbs's handcuffs on DiComo's wrists. Gibbs made sure the cuffs were tight.

"You have no idea what you're doing," DiComo said under his breath. Gibbs made sure that DiComo's head got a good bounce off the car roof.

"Hey, Tony," the heavy man said. "Should we call someone? Should we call Fermatti?"

"Yeah," DiComo said. "You better."

When the car drove off, the short fat guy said, "Were they really from CSI?"

In the car, Gibbs said, "You mobsters don't put up much of a fight."

DiComo sighed. "Well, you probably helped my street cred a little with those guys, but I didn't really want to punch out a Fed."

"Thanks for going easy on me," Gibbs said.

"You know, you just made the biggest mistake of your career," DiComo said.

"You're not that important, DiComo."

"That arrest was completely illegal. And dumb. And I'm not DiComo. I'm Detective Anthony DiNozzo, Baltimore Homicide."

Gibbs looked at the young man in the rearview mirror. His demeanor had changed completely; the mook was gone, and in his place was a confident young man, annoyed but also amused.

"Seriously," he continued. "My shift lieutenant is Robert Tighe. He's on nights this week, but I can give you his cellphone number."

"It could be anyone's cellphone number," Gibbs said, but he was remembering Figarello's warning about the situation being delicate.

"Fine, call the BPD front desk. Ask for Sergeant Friendly. He's my squad commander. He knows."

"Friendly?" Pacci asked. "Wasn't he one of the two Freds?"

"Two Freds?" DiComo, or DiNozzo, leaned forward. "You saw them? Together?"

"They were there when we went to pick up Montefiore's body."

"Seriously? The two Freds answered a call together?" DiNozzo whistled. "The overtime situation must be _really_ bad. Hey, do you realize how lucky you are? Those two are legends in the department. You got some first-class Bawlmer police snark there."

"Sergeants are legendary for their snark in Baltimore?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, yeah, it's a point of pride. Blackest humor wins. But not just that. They're great detectives. Friendly once closed fifteen cases in a row. Fifteen."

"I've closed fifteen cases in a row," Gibbs said.

"Not in Baltimore Homicide you haven't." DiNozzo leaned farther forward. "It's Pacci, right? Do yourself a favor, _paisan_. Make the call."

Pacci looked at Gibbs, who finally nodded.

DiNozzo was still leaning forward. "So," he said to Gibbs, "they ever call you Mistah Tibbs?"

"No," Gibbs said.

"In the Heat of the Night. Rod Steiger and Sidney Poitier. Maybe the first great cop-buddy movie. The really mismatched buddy type. Poitier was Mister Tibbs. He played it like even his underwear was starched."

Pacci held the phone way from his ear. "Yes, I get it, Sergeant Friendly. I understand you're upset. We'll bring him back right away."

"No, you can't do that," DiNozzo said. "Fermatti's the lawyer. Sooner or later he'll show up at the Navy Yard to spring me. I'd better be there, or you'll blow my cover."

"Tell Friendly to come down to the Navy Yard," Gibbs said, "and whatever your name is, you can tell me what you know about Pat Montefiore before your Mob lawyer springs you."

"I'm Tony," DiNozzo said. "Since we're all on the same team. How about you pull over and loosen these cuffs?"

Gibbs sped up. "I wouldn't want to blow your cover."

When Gibbs looked in the rearview mirror, DiNozzo was smiling. It was a real smile this time, not a smirk, the smile of a cocky young man, the sort who thrived under the pressure of the big game and the last second play, confident that he would put the ball just where he needed to.


	8. Chapter 8 Steve McQueen as Donnie Brasco

8 Steve McQueen as Donnie Brasco

Morrow was waiting for them in the squadroom. "Well, this investigation is off to a fine start. Agent Gibbs, I told you resources would be put at your disposal. There's no need to start shanghai'ing other police officers."

"I was kind of a jerk," DiNozzo said. "But that's my job."

"I'm sure you do it very well," Morrow said. Morrow was as immaculately dressed as ever, and DiNozzo was in a T-shirt rank with dried sweat, but Morrow offered his hand. "I'm sure that BPD and NCIS will be able to work together to unravel this mess."

DiNozzo looked at his dirty T-shirt before he shook Morrow's hand. "Sorry," he said. "I was playing basketball."

"In this heat? Such energy. Both of you should make a quick visit to Dr. Mallard. And I'll try to see that the police officers and the Mob lawyers don't run into each other." Morrow went back to his office.

DiNozzo had a swelling under his eye and Gibbs had a bruise on his chin. "No serious harm done," Ducky said.

"I've been hit harder by cheerleaders," DiNozzo said.

"I've been hit harder by puppies," Gibbs said.

"I knew you were a Fed. You thought I was a hitman."

"Well, a fine time has obviously been had by all," Ducky said. "I'd put a bandage on that, but I suppose your Mafia lawyer would find that suspicious. A bit of bactine should be sufficient. You might want to soak those wrists when you get home. And Abby wants to see you both in her lab. She has questions."

"Montefiore," Gibbs asked in the elevator.

"We didn't whack him."

Gibbs winced at the "we" and the "whack," and wondered if DiNozzo had bought into his cover a little too much. "But you were going to."

"I wasn't going to whack anyone."

"He had low-grade meth in his stash."

"Yeah, I thought maybe he was working both sides. Incredibly stupid thing to do. We were just going to have a little chat."

"So why didn't you?"

"We did. We came back around 10. Your car was gone, so we had our little chat. We left around 10:30. I don't know what happened next, but it had to have been the Gold Tops."

"You were awfully sure about your fingerprints."

"I was awfully sure I hadn't left any."

In the lab, Abby and DiNozzo gave each other a long look and were apparently satisfied with what they saw. "I'm Tony," DiNozzo said.

"I'm Abby. See, Gibbs, I told you he wasn't a mook."

"Hey, I make a very good mook."

"Your aura said otherwise."

"I hope Macaluso doesn't read auras," Tony said.

"So how did you get the paper?" Abby said. "It was very convincing."

"The US attorney in Cleveland is the dad of a fraternity brother. He put it together for me. He even found someone to vouch for me with Macaluso. How'd you make me, anyway?"

"You left a print on a bocce ball."

"I guess I'll stick to basketball." He looked around at the gleaming equipment and the big TV. "Wow. You've got everything here. Our lab's nothing like this."

"They're rewiring the whole building," Abby said.

"We've barely got email," Tony said. "Is there anything to eat around here?"

"I've got some Klowny Kakes in my desk," Abby said. "I don't have anything to drink because Gibbs forgot my Caf-Pow."

"That stuff will kill you." Tony took a Klowny Kake and wandered over to the flat screen. "Wow. Plasma?"

"Yup. Forty-six inches. The resolution's unbelievable."

"I have got to get one of these things," Tony said around a mouthful of Klowny Kake.

"You'll need five thousand dollars," Abby said.

"Well, maybe next year. You got cable here?"

"It's for work," Abby said primly.

"Of course. Seriously, you got cable?"

"Of course. And the new computers all have readable-writeable DVDs."

"I would love to see Bullitt on this thing. I bet the chase would make you carsick. Or football. Imagine seeing a blindside hit on this baby."

Gibbs cleared his throat. "Montefiore had a lot of pharmaceuticals."

"Yeah, he got those from Macaluso. The real stuff, too. Some of it's imported from plants in Asia. Macaluso doesn't have the reach for that kind of operation, so he's piggybacking on someone else. And a lot of it they get from Medicare scams."

"The meth?"

"Mexico. Macaluso still controls the docks, so it's not a big deal. It's a lot cheaper than having it trucked in from California."

"Why didn't Baltimore PD put someone down at the docks?"

"Too hard. It's not like they're hiring new people."

"Montefiore's dad?"

"In on it. But I don't think he knew Pat was dealing."

"Could we turn Montefiore?"

"I don't think so. Macaluso will lie his ass off and Montefiore will believe him. See, Macaluso's a smooth guy. He doesn't have the greatest business plan in the world, but for better or worse he plays it old school. You know, the man of honor, the big _padrone_. More Don Corleone than Tony Soprano."

"Again with this Soprano thing," Gibbs muttered.

"You have to watch The Sopranos," Tony said, "if you want to deal with these guys. For the older guys, it's the Godfather movies. For the younger guys, it's the Sopranos. They treat these things like how-to guides. Which is why I have to wear butt-ugly tracksuits."

"And your hair," Abby said.

"What's wrong with my hair?" Tony asked.

"I'm more interested in what's wrong with Macaluso's business plan," Gibbs said.

"You control the docks, you focus on things that have to come from somewhere else. But meth can be made from over the counter pills and you can teach idiots to do it. Sure, the Mexican stuff is better. But methheads don't care about better, they care about cheap. And…"

"And?"

"The Gold Tops are a lot tougher. Sooner or later, they win."

"Do you understand what you're saying, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked quietly.

"Yes," Tony said, and his tone matched Gibbs's. "I understand."

"How'd you get this job?"

"I volunteered."

"You've done undercover work before?"

"A little. Nothing like this."

"And it's just you."

"Just me."

"Wiretaps?"

"We have phone taps but no one uses landlines any more. And they're smart about cellphones. No wiretaps. We just don't have the skill or the equipment to tap a place like Vincenzo's."

"You wear a wire?"

"Tried. Too much ambient noise in Vincenzo's. And we have those old Nagas. They're bulky. Supposedly we're getting better ones."

Gibbs sighed. "I'm starting to think you didn't just volunteer, you came up with this."

"Donnie Brasco," Tony said. "But I'm more Steve McQueen than Johnny Depp, don't you think? Did you know his real first name was Terrence? Terrence McQueen just doesn't sound the same, does it?"

"This isn't a movie, DiNozzo." Gibbs's cell rang. "Your sergeant and your lieutenant are here. Your shyster's not. We're wanted in the conference room."


	9. Chap 9 Every squadroom needs a DiNozzo

9 Every squadroom needs a DiNozzo

Lieutenant Tighe looked like a slightly-less well-groomed Morrow, but Friendly looked even more disheveled than he had at the crime scene. "I told you not to go poking around Macaluso," he said to Gibbs.

Morrow said, "I understand that our investigation has complicated your plans, Sergeant Friendly. But it's our job to investigate the death of an American sailor. The only question now is how to proceed. Please, sit."

Friendly was about to take a seat beside DiNozzo when he stepped back. "Jesus, kid."

"I was playing basketball. It's hot out."

"I don't suppose I'm allowed to smoke in here," Friendly asked.

"No, I'm afraid not," Morrow said. "I presume, Detective DiNozzo, that you have no information about the death of Petty Officer Montefiore."

"I know that Macaluso didn't order it."

"And you know this how?"

"We were just told to talk to Pat—make sure he understood who his friends are. We did that. We left him around 10:30. He was fine."

"And you're sure that no one else from Macaluso's circle went back later."

"I'm pretty sure. What's the TOD?"

"Between midnight and 1am."

Tony frowned. "We were at Vincenzo's until 1:30, I think. Maybe a little later. Mark Vitalia would give the order. He was with us all night. He didn't make any phone calls. And I think they'd really think twice about whacking Pat."

"Because they rely on his father at the docks," Gibbs said.

"But they were using his son to sell drugs," Friendly said.

"No one was forcing Pat. He must have wanted in." Tony shrugged. "It had to have been someone from the Gold Tops."

"Do you know much about them?"

"A little," Tony said. "Raymond Jeffers is the top guy. His dad was big in crack in the 80s but got muscled out and ended up with about 15 bullets in him. Raymond did a nickel at Jessup and apparently came home with a good business plan. He'd give the orders. Who pulled the trigger, I don't know."

"It was a Tec 9," Gibbs said.

"They all carry Tec 9s," Tony said. "They had Tec 9s at the Block shootout. Three other Macaluso guys have been hit in the last few months. I think they were all Tecs, too."

"We're going to want to see that ballistics evidence," Gibbs said.

"We'll send the reports by fax tomorrow," Tighe said.

"I don't want to see the reports. I want my expert to see the evidence."

There were looks between Tighe and Friendly. Tighe said, "I'm sure we can arrange something. You understand they're all open cases right now."

"We have world-class forensics here," Morrow said, "and no waiting. We might be able to help you out there. And of course we can call on the FBI."

"The FBI," Friendly scoffed. "Good luck."

"I've got contacts there," Gibbs said. "We'll get priority."

"Is Macaluso trying to get intel on the Gold Tops?" Morrow asked.

"Sure," Tony said. "But the Gold Tops are tighter than Macaluso's crew. I think they're all from the neighborhood up around Reservoir. And if you talk out of school, you end up in an alley. We have no hope of getting someone in with them. And they're even smarter about cellphones than Macaluso."

"We found prints at Montefiore's house but didn't get any hits."

Tony winced. "Yeah, sometimes the Gold Tops use really young kids. Eyewitnesses at the Block shootout said the shooters were maybe 15 or 16. They might not have any paper yet. Or they're sealed as juvies."

"Charming," Morrow said.

"Look," Friendly said impatiently. "It'd be great if we could sit here and close your case for you. The real problem is what we do with DiNozzo now."

"Do we have to do anything?" Tighe said. "Fermatti comes down and springs him and yells a lot. That's the end of it. And I presume that NCIS will let us know what they're doing in Baltimore in the future."

"We should pull him out," Friendly said. "Now. Not even let Fermatti pick him up. He's blown."

"I'm not blown," Tony said. "It's a bum arrest. They'll understand."

"This isn't a Big 10 game, Tony. These people are killers. You left fingerprints," Friendly said. "At the least they'll think you're incompetent. At worst they make you for a police."

"I left fingerprints on a bocce ball. For all I know Macaluso's fingerprints are there, too."

"It's too dangerous," Friendly said. "It's four months already and we've got nothing."

"We don't have nothing," Tony said. "I hang with these guys all the time. I talk to their dealers. I know who their hitters are. Hell, I play pool with Vitalia and Macaluso almost every night."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Friendly said. "Please tell me you're not hustling Mike Macaluso."

"I give him just enough game," Tony said. He smiled. "You know. Just like Vincent in The Color of Money. I'm scamming Fast Eddie Felsen."

"We don't know how the stuff's coming in."

"We do know how. I just don't know when yet. But I will."

Gibbs found himself torn between exasperation and amusement. It was a replay of the basketball court: the cocky young man, cool and running the game. What kind of an organization was Baltimore Homicide that a junior detective talked to his sergeant and his lieutenant like this? Again it occurred to Gibbs that this ramshackle undercover assignment had been DiComo's—no, DiNozzo's own idea. But the motormouth had game.

"We'd have to pull him in six weeks or two months at the latest anyway," Friendly says. "That grand jury isn't going to wait forever."

"Grand jury?" Gibbs perked up. "You're planning on going before a grand jury with this Macaluso stuff in six weeks?"

"Not this matter," Tighe said.

"What matter is it?" Gibbs said.

"It's an intradepartmental matter," Tighe said coldly. "It's not relevant here."

"It's an infinite screw up is what it is," Friendly said.

"Sarge." Gibbs saw the cocky young man fall away, and in his place was an earnest and angry policeman. "I worked for that collar."

"I know you did, Tony," Friendly sighed. "But you didn't handle it the right way."

"Enough talking out of school," Tighe said.

"If you pull me now, it's all for nothing," Tony said. "And I'm finished in Baltimore. I can't go back on the street after four months with Macaluso."

There was a knock at the door, and Morrow's assistant looked in. "There's a Mr. Fermatti and two of his associates here. They're looking for a Mr. DiComo."

"And I'm sure they're very indignant," Morrow said. "Show them to the first-floor conference room, Cynthia. And please tell them that I'll see them shortly. Lieutenant Tighe, Sergeant Friendly, it's your play. We'll back you either way."

Tighe stood. "He goes back with Fermatti tonight. Fred, we'll discuss this in the morning."

Friendly said, "Tony, you call me tonight. I don't care what time you get back from Vincenzo's. You call."

"Sure, dad."

"Agent Gibbs, you should take Detective DiNozzo down the back stairs. Don't forget to cuff him. Please, Lieutenant, Sergeant, wait here until they've gone. And don't hesitate to contact me directly in the future. I'll go apologize to the Mafia attorney. Agent Gibbs, I know I can count on you to be appropriately unapologetic and surly."

Going down the back stairs, Gibbs said, "That grand jury looking into trouble in your evidence lab?"

Tony shrugged. "I can't talk about it."

"But you don't think you handled it the wrong way."

"I don't know. I don't think so. If Fred thinks I was wrong, maybe I am. But it still seems like it was the right thing to do."

He seemed deflated now, the mook personality utterly vanished. Perhaps the undercover assignment was a terrible idea, perhaps DiNozzo was a cocky young man in way over his head. But that flash of earnestness in the conference room had caught Gibbs's attention as much as the smile in the car. He slapped DiNozzo in the back of the head, just the way Mike Franks used to slap him.

Tony yelped. "What was that for?"

"You needed to get back in character," Gibbs said. As he was putting the cuffs back on, he said, "Give me your cellphone number. The one you use to call Friendly."

"Why?"

"I have a friend in the FBI. He's worked Mob cases. He might be able to help."

"We tried to get the FBI before."

"He's a very good friend."

"You don't seem like the friendly type," Tony said, but he gave him the number. And by the time they walked into the conference room, he had his mook face squarely back on.

A fine little comedy was played for Mr. Fermatti and his associates. Fermatti stormed, Tony mouthed off, Gibbs mouthed off under his breath, Morrow soothed. It all ended with the understanding that NCIS would leave Mr. DiComo alone in the future, even after Mr. Fermatti filed a massive lawsuit seeking recompense for the dire and multiple violations of Mr. DiComo's rights. A good time was had by all.

"A spirited young man," Morrow said when they were gone. "Too spirited for his current situation. This is turning into a very odd case."

"What do you want me to do, sir?"

"Get whatever evidence you can from the other shootings. I'd like to help them if we can. I'd also like to know what we're getting into. That grand jury issue…"

"I think I know what's going on there."

"Try and tread lightly, Jethro. I want this Montefiore matter closed properly. But I don't want to get Agent DiNozzo killed, either."

"It's Detective DiNozzo, sir."

"So it is." Morrow smiled. "Perhaps you'll show our Baltimore guests out. I'm sure Sergeant Friendly needs a cigarette by now."

Tighe was distant, Friendly sullen. They had driven separately, and Morrow was right; Friendly needed a cigarette. Gibbs offered him his Zippo. "How do you put up with him?" he asked.

"Tighe? He's a lieutenant that wants to be a captain. I've seen worse."

"I meant DiNozzo."

Friendly smiled ruefully. "What bugs you the most?"

"The talking. The movies. The disrespect."

"He's a real police. He works his cases, though I don't understand how or when. Closes more than he should. The movies? Some guys do things by the book. Good police figure out their own way. That's his way. Disrespect? He's not really disrespectful. He just wants to do the job."

"But why?"

"Maybe he's seen too many movies. The why's not my problem. How long you been on the job, Gibbs?"

"Ten years."

"I got 25 in. Six in a radio car in the Western district, four in narcotics. Fifteen years in Homicide. Heroin, coke, PCP, crack, meth. I remember when bad guys killed each other with Saturday night specials. Now they got Tec 9s. Some of them have Mac 10s. Shootings, strangulation, decapitation, defenestration, you name it, I've worked it." He put out his cigarette. "You gotta have a DiNozzo in the squadroom, Gibbs. He lightens the load."


	10. Ch 10 This is your life, Anthony DiNozzo

Chapter 10 This is your life, Anthony DiNozzo

The next morning Gibbs took two giant Caf-Pows to Abby. "You know I love gifts, Gibbs, but this kind of generosity gets me worried."

"I have two jobs for you. Once you probably won't enjoy, and one you probably will."

"I think I probably deserve two Caf-Pows for the first one. Which is?"

"I need you to go to Baltimore and inspect the evidence in those other related shootings. See if we can at least get a ballistics match on the weapon used to kill Montefiore."

"I'd think even Baltimore could do a ballistics match."

"Probably, but until we know more about that grand jury thing, I'm taking no chances."

"I'm guessing that finding out more about that grand jury thing is my second job."

Gibbs frowned. "Well, maybe I have three jobs for you. We'll just have to put the next Caf-Pow on my tab. But whatever you do, don't bring up DiNozzo's name. I don't know how many people know about this."

"Your credit is always good here, Marine. What's my other task?"

"I want you to use your T2 thingy-"

"T2 is a terminator movie. The internet connection is a T1."

"Are you talking to me?" Gibbs asked. "I want you to find out everything you can about this Anthony DiNozzo."

Abby smiled. "Gibbs! You _can_ see auras. I knew it."

"If we're going to get involved with this mess I need to know what I'm getting into."

"Should I look into his superiors, too?"

"No," Gibbs said. "I think this is mostly DiNozzo's show. I need to know why he's undercover in Baltimore."

"The internet may give up facts, Gibbs, but not motivation. Now his aura says…"

"You get me the facts, I'll do the interpretation. When?"

"I'll make an appointment to see the evidence next week. For the aura reading…Tuesday. No, better make it Wednesday."

"Wednesday, Abs?"

"Gibbs, it's Friday. Labor Day is Monday. This is a three-day weekend, and I have plans that don't involve a basement or bourbon. Wednesday."

"Wednesday," he grumbled.

He called Fornell, too, who didn't return his call. So Gibbs spent a quiet three-day weekend, getting a lot of work done on his boat, wondering what he was getting into, and why.

On Wednesday, Gibbs took Abby another Caf-Pow—she had abandoned Jolt without a backward glance—so she could fill him in on her projects. "I'm going to Baltimore next week to review the evidence. I couldn't get them to give on the dates. Definitely hinky, Gibbs."

"Their knees must be knocking over this grand jury thing."

"As well they should be," Abby said grimly. "Evidence analysis is a sacred trust. One bad apple poisons the well for everyone. Or, um, something like that. I haven't had enough caffeine yet."

"What about DiNozzo?"

"He's a strange one, Gibbs."

"Crooked?" Somehow his gut had just never been comfortable with this one.

"I don't think so. Just not your ordinary Baltimore Homicide detective. So, Anthony DiNozzo, this is your life. Actually, he's Anthony D. DiNozzo junior, but I haven't been able to find out what the D stands for."

"I doubt that's important."

"You never know. Let's see. Born in Cleveland, July 1971. Father is Anthony DiNozzo senior, but you figured that out, I bet. Mother was Ellen DiNozzo, née Paddington, English citizen, died in 1979 of undisclosed causes. She was a fellow at the Cleveland Institute of Music."

"I doubt that's important, either, Abs."

"True, but it sounded nice. Imagine being a fellow at an institute of music."

"I'd rather docent."

"There's more music in your soul than you realize, Gibbs. Let's see, where was I? Moved to New York in 1981. Graduated from the Rhode Island Military Academy. BA in phys ed from Ohio State University, June 1994. Gibbs, did you know that Ohio State fans are crazy?"

"I doubt that will be important, either, Abs."

"Oh, but it was incredibly helpful. The internet's still in its infancy, Gibbs, and someday virtually all the information in the world—including virtually all the information about every human on the planet—will be available. Right now it's mostly hobbyists. And there are a lot of people obsessed with Ohio State sports."

"Abs. If you ever want another Caf-Pow, tell me something useful."

"But that's how I got a lot of the information. There's information on all the teams for every year, information on every game, and a lot of follow-up information on former athletes. Tony was an athlete at Ohio State. Big time."

"I figured that," Gibbs said. "I saw him play basketball."

"Not basketball. I mean, he was on the roster and he played some. He was a football player."

"_That_ guy is a football player?"

"Yep. Starting quarterback for two seasons. I asked Sister Rosalita and she told that Ohio State is in something called the Big 10, where they're wild about football. So he must have been really good."

"So why isn't he in the NFL?"

"Broke his leg senior year. According to one fansite I found he was an okay passer but a great scrambler. And Sister Rosalita said to scramble you need good speed."

"Sister Rosalita's almost more useful than the internet." Gibbs frowned. "So he's not going to the NFL. Why isn't he hanging around football in some other way? Recruiting, glad-handing alumni, something like that?"

"I don't know. See, that's why I say he's an odd duck, Gibbs, because he seems like the type that would hang around sports, doesn't he? And it gets odder."

"Does it get quicker?"

"Gibbs, you can't know which part of this is important until you've heard it all. Anyway, graduates from the consolidated Illinois state police academy in December 1994 and starts off in Peoria as a patrolman in January 1995. Transfers to Philadelphia metro police in November 1997, plainclothes division. Hired by Baltimore PD as a detective in July 1999."

"That's a lot of moving around," Gibbs said. "Any idea why?"

"I don't think anyone needs a reason to leave Peoria. Not sure why he ended up in Philadelphia. Or Baltimore. But he was promoted each time."

"Philadelphia," Gibbs grunted. "Fornell was there a few years ago. Police corruption, I think."

"You think right. But I didn't find his name attached to anything published on that."

Gibbs sighed. "Still no proof he's clean."

Abby grinned. "I talked to a friend in Philly. The rumor is that there was a romantic encounter with his colonel's daughter, and it was made clear that promotion to detective was not going to happen. But that's not the kind of corruption you're worried about, is it, Gibbs?"

"Poor judgment in romantic matters is still poor judgment."

"Says the man who's been married three times in nine years."

Gibbs gave her a glare; she took it with a grin. "So he had to leave Philadelphia in a hurry. Why Baltimore?"

"Baltimore Homicide actually has a pretty good reputation, Gibbs, especially given its size and lousy funding. It's probably not a bad place to learn the job. Or maybe he just really likes crabs."

"I'm not seeing the oddness, Abby."

"His father lives on Park Avenue."

"Park Avenue? In New York?"

"Like I love you but give me Park Avenue."

"I wish people would stop saying things like that."

"It's from Green Acres, Gibbs. Didn't you ever watch TV as a kid?"

"I watched Rawhide reruns."

"How appropriate. You do have a bit of Clint Eastwood in you. Anyway, yes, that Park Avenue. And I don't know if there are any parts of Park Avenue that aren't nice, but he lives in the nicest part."

"What's he do?"

"He's a real estate developer, I think. Or an investment banker. Or both. I'm not sure. He turns up in the society pages a lot, not so much in the business section. And Gibbs, he's been married more often than you."

"You're telling me this guy is a trust fund kid?"

"As far as I can tell."

"So he's just playing cops and robbers," Gibbs said, and was surprised at his own disappointment.

"Maybe. But, Gibbs, you'd think his father could have gotten him a much cushier job. Or at least a higher profile one. Instead he went to a state university on an athletic scholarship and he's been taking a tour of tough little police departments after that. Which is why I say: odd. But you know I like odd."

Abby handed over hardcopies and Gibbs flipped through them, finding nothing more of interest. "What is this guy doing in Baltimore?" Gibbs said to himself. Gibbs had a lot of rules for doing this job. Some of them were even written down. He followed them, but in the end he followed his gut, and mostly his gut was right. That's what he was doing now, but he didn't really understand why. What am _I_ doing in Baltimore? he wondered.


	11. Chapter 11 Make it Tuesday

Chapter 11 Make it Tuesday

Fornell called back on Wednesday afternoon. "We were at the shore," Fornell said. "A lovely little family vacation for Labor Day weekend. The first time Emily's seen the ocean."

"Did Diane eat any sharks?"

"Jethro."

"Or does she leave them alone as a professional courtesy?"

"She is my wife," Fornell said testily.

"For now. Are you busy these days?"

"When I'm not at the shore? Truthfully, not very. Want to go out for pizza?"

"I want to go to Baltimore."

"Crab season is just about over. Don't tell me this is about the Mob again."

"It is. Circumstances have changed." And he told Fornell about Montefiore, Macaluso, and the Gold Tops.

"But your killer isn't in the Mob, Jethro. And I told you, this takes months, or years, of work. Getting someone inside…"

"Baltimore PD already has someone inside."

"My God. They're trying to do this on their own? How long?"

"He's been inside for four months."

"So how close is he?"

"He says he's pretty close. Playing pool with the inside guys most nights. He knows the dealers and the hitters and how the stuff is coming in, but not when."

Fornell whistled. "Jesus, Gibbs, that's just _crazy_. One guy, no prep, no wiretaps, no real backup? This is why I hate when the locals try to run their own undercover ops. Amateurs. And in this business amateurs get killed. So have you met this guy?"

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"His sergeant says he's a good policeman. He's an arrogant piece of work."

"The best ones are. But how's his goombah?"

"He fooled me."

"And no one has ever done that before, said the much-married man. I don't know, Jethro, you've busted a few goons in your time. But it's not in your blood." Fornell's tone turned bitter. "I've lost a few undercover agents, and I thought they were more than pretty good. These Mob guys are terribly, terribly suspicious. It's awfully easy to make a wrong step, especially if the necessary legwork hasn't been done first."

"He's made it through four months."

"That's something, I guess." Fornell sighed. "So you really just want me to take pity on this poor Baltimore cop."

"I want to bust a drug ring and find a murderer."

"If you bust the drug ring you'll probably find several murderers, but not the one you're looking for. Are you getting sentimental on me, Jethro?"

"Are you drunk?" Gibbs asked. "Or did you get sun poisoning?"

"Probably, because the thought of you being sentimental—that's one of the seven signs of the apocalypse, isn't it?"

"You say you're not busy," Gibbs said. "Are you at least interested?"

"I'm interested," Fornell said, "though it'll probably be a disaster. Mostly because I _am_ sentimental and I know what those guys will do to a cop if his cover gets blown. I'll tell you what. The new director gets sworn in next Monday, the 10th. Big meetings are underway right now, setting policy. I'll talk to my boss. What say we meet one day next week? Bring the Baltimore guys in."

"Monday it is."

"Did I mention that the swearing in is on Monday? There will be sheetcake and punch. Make it Tuesday."

"Tuesday the 11th. Eight-thirty?"

"Really, Gibbs. Nine-thirty. And I'll expect decent coffee and donuts."

"Do you consider Klowny Kakes donuts?"


	12. Chapter 12 Always bring Krispy Kremes

This chapter is rated T. Sorry, don't know how to change it for just one chapter.

12 Always bring Krispy Kremes to meetings and disasters

The terrible heat and humidity had gone, and once it was gone, you were able to forget that Washington had been built on reclaimed swampland. The skies were blue and cloudless, the air soft and kind. On Tuesday the 11th, Gibbs got to work by 8:30, toting two boxes of warm Krispy Kremes. He was amused to see a black Corvette in the visitor's lot. Well, he appreciated timeliness. He was less amused to see DiNozzo chatting up Abby in the squadroom. "You dress like a mobster every day?" Gibbs asked, taking in the wide pin-striped suit with disapproval.

"This is my own suit," Tony protested. "It's a Zegna. Brand new."

"Aren't zebras white with black stripes?"

"Zegna. Um, not really your thing, obviously. Kinda clashes with the walls in here, but I guess everything does. Good thing you're painting."

"That is the new color," Abby said.

"Oh, well…Well, everything else is terrific. These flat-screens are amazing." He apparently had no trouble with the remote.

"No SportsCenter," Abby said.

"But I haven't seen the highlights from Monday Night Football," Tony protested.

"No SportsCenter," Abby said again.

Tony sighed and started hopscotching through the channels looking for ZNN. "They have this really cute new reporter," he said.

"So," Gibbs said, not interested in ZNN or its cute new reporter, "learn anything interesting?"

"Montefiore's dad talked to Macaluso. Macaluso's got him convinced that you're lying about Pat. No surprise there."

"So, Baltimore," Abby said. "Where should I go?"

"You should do the Poe thing," Tony said. "Westminster Hall. Poe's grave is there. You know someone leaves a bottle of cognac every year? Creepy. I went to a wedding there, believe it or not."

"I like it," Abby said. "A wedding in a graveyard. Maybe your next one should be there, Gibbs."

Gibbs glared.

"And then you can go to The Horse You Came In On. Oldest continuously operating tavern in the United States. Supposedly it was Poe's last stop before he died. Or was murdered."

"That must be really creepy," Abby said happily.

"Actually, it's a really nice place. Great live music. And there's lots of other places in Fells Point, but I don't know if Poe drank at all of them. I think they all claim he did."

"The investigation," Gibbs prompted.

"I think the drug scam is tied into other insurance fraud. You know, fake a car accident, get money for fake chiropractor visits and fake canes and get scrips for real pain killers. That stuff isn't just in Baltimore but out in the counties, too. Baltimore's just not big enough."

"I'm not really interested in Medicare fraud, DiNozzo."

"I'm not either. I'm just reporting. This is pretty basic cable," Tony added, disappointed.

"You learn anything more about the Gold Tops?"

"No one in Macaluso's group knows enough about the Gold Tops. And they're all knotted up trying to figure out how to hit back over Pat. Are those Krispy Kremes warm? It's a shame to let them get cold."

Sighing, Gibbs handed over a box. "Why are they knotted up?"

"Pat was a fink. On the other hand, they hate to let it look as if they can't hit back. On the other hand, it's not that easy to hit back. They kind of stand out in West Baltimore, you know? And that Block shootout didn't go well."

"Macaluso's people started the Block shootout?"

"Yep. But I don't know who the shooters were. Yet. These are the best donuts in the world. And police know donuts."

Gibbs took the box back. "Save some for your sergeant. Macaluso's the smooth guy. Who's the smart one?'

"Vitalia, definitely. I don't think he likes this whole meth business, but he set it up and he runs it anyway. It's his job."

"Why doesn't he just muscle Macaluso out?"

Tony shrugged. "It's not that simple. Macaluso's old man was the man, and _his_ old man was the man. And the family's small now. A war would just about wipe them out. So Vitalia does what he has to and tries not to do what he doesn't have to."

"Like take revenge for Pat Montefiore."

"Right. Which means I don't have to worry about knowing someone's getting whacked tonight." The cable box was back on SportsCenter, with football highlights. "Five minutes?" he asked Abby.

"No." And so he turned back to ZNN. "I can't get over how fabulous this picture is. Do you ever really use this for work?"

Gibbs got a call that Fornell was in the building, and he went down to meet him. "I didn't want those Baltimore guys to eat all the donuts," Fornell said. "I hope you did better than Klowny Kakes."

"Krispy Kremes," Gibbs said.

"You do know your LEOs."

In the squadroom, Gibbs was about to make introductions, when Fornell said, "Ah, Officer DiNuht-zo," saying that last bit with an accent and a flourish.

Tony flushed. "It's Detective now, and it's DiNoh-zoh," he said.

"It's a sad thing when a man doesn't know how to pronounce his own name," Fornell said.

"It's a sad thing when a man changes his name, Agent Fornelli."

"You two know each other?" Gibbs said.

"Officer DiNuht-zo helped us out in a small way in Philadelphia. In a _very_ small way."

"I believe a man's as big as what he's seeking," Tony said. To Gibbs, who looked annoyed, "Bad Day at Black Rock. Spencer Tracy. With one arm. Great movie."

"And you're Spencer Tracy?" Fornell asked.

"Of course not. Spencer Tracy was way too old for that part. The fight scenes were ridiculous. Great performance, though."

"So how's the colonel's daughter?" Fornell smirked.

"She's probably fine." Tony grinned. "She's probably still squeaking, too."

"Squeaking?" Fornell asked, puzzled.

"Squeaking. You know. Some women scream. This one squeaked." Tony's grin broadened. "Or maybe you don't know some women scream."

"She _squeaked_?" Fornell asked. He sounded a little squeaky himself.

"Like a rubber ducky."

Abby punched his arm, hard. "That's disgusting."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "So you lost a job because you couldn't keep your big mouth shut about a girl who squeaks?"

"Who could keep his mouth shut about a girl who squeaks?" Tony was still grinning. "I didn't use her name and I didn't know she was the colonel's daughter. Hey, at least it didn't cost me any alimony. Yeah, you checked up on me, I checked up on you, Leroy."

"You're the guy who's been inside for four mouths?" Fornell asked.

"_Si, paisan_."

"Oh, God," Fornell groaned. "Worse than amateur hour. Are you _ever_ under adult supervision?"

"I can't believe you'd tell anyone something like that," Abby said.

To Fornell, Gibbs said, "We need to talk. In my office."

"I haven't gotten a donut yet," Fornell protested, but he followed. They were at the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, when Abby cried out. "Tony! Turn it back to ZNN!"

"Christ," Tony said. "That's the World Trade Center."

The words World Trade Center flipped the terrorism switch that Mike Franks and the Cole had planted in Gibbs's brain, and he went back to the flat screen, followed by Fornell.

"A plane flew into the Empire State Building in World War Two," Tony said. "Also in King Kong." At a look from Gibbs he said, "Well, the World War Two thing happened."

"It's a perfectly clear day," Fornell said. "The pilots must have been dead or drunk."

"No way," Gibbs said. "That's no accident."

They were huddled around the set, listening to the cute new reporter on ZNN repeat the same details over and over, when another plane flew into the second tower. Abby screamed, and the others all jumped back from the big, too-real screen.

"Madonn'," Fornell whispered.

"They'll never put those fires out," Abby said. "Never."

"They did in The Towering Inferno," Tony said. "Water tanks on top."

"There are no water tanks on top," Gibbs said, "and this isn't a damned movie, DiNozzo."

Now all the new flat screens in the squadroom were on and tuned into news channels, and even the painters were crowded around. Morrow came out and whistled to get everyone's attention. "We have reason to believe that these are terrorist attacks," he said. "The Defense Department has raised our status to Alpha. Until further notice, no one leaves the building. Stay off the phones as much as possible. I'll relay instructions as soon as they become available."

Morrow came down to Gibbs. "You and Franks were prophets, I'm afraid. They're evacuating the Capitol and the White House as we speak."

"Evacuating, sir?" Gibbs asked.

"There are other planes unaccounted for, Jethro," Morrow said quietly. "Agent Fornell, you're free to leave, of course. I suspect you'll be wanted at your office immediately."

Afterwards they were all certain that they had felt the impact. Pacci called them over to the window. "The Pentagon's on fire. Do you think—you don't think they could actually hit the Pentagon with a commercial airliner, do you?"

"They just did," Gibbs said.

And at that point the phones started ringing all over the squadroom. Morrow came out again and said sharply, "All available agents, get to the Pentagon now. Take tactical radios, the cellphone network may go down. Do what you can. Go."

As Gibbs was gearing up, Tony said, "What should I do?"

"Call your bosses and tell them to turn back. And go back to Baltimore."

"But I'm a police officer," Tony said. "There must be something I can do."

He was a police officer, but what Gibbs saw was the little brother, left behind while the bigger boys went out to do men's work. "You're out of your jurisdiction and you're undercover. There'll be TV cameras all over the place. I'm sorry. I don't think we can help you any time soon."

"I understand. But thanks anyway."

"Go home. And watch your back, DiNozzo."


	13. Chapter 13 No home to go to

13 When you have no home to go to

Tony didn't go home. He really wanted to be back on the broken-down sofa in his old frat house, or in his squadroom in Baltimore. He wondered how the guys in Homicide were handling this. They'd seen almost every kind of bad thing that people could do, and they prided themselves on facing the worst with the sharpest and blackest humor. He figured no jokes were being cracked today, even by the Freds.

But of course he couldn't go back to the squadroom. The best he could do was go back to Tony DiComo's place in Little Italy, and if he went there he'd be alone, and he didn't think he could sit and watch the TV alone, and he didn't think he could sit there without watching the TV. Sooner or later he'd end up going to Vincenzo's just for company, and the thought of hanging out with Macaluso's crew on this day made him sick.

So he was kind of relieved when Abby grabbed him by his Zegna lapel and dragged him down to her lab. "I need company," she said. "When things start getting crazy you'll have to go, because I can't have you contaminating evidence in the most important investigation I'll ever do. But until then I need company."

"Okay," he said. He was wary about getting another punch, but that day and that night he spent in Abby's lab and no further punches were thrown. Her 46" plasma showed, over and over in stunning definition, the planes flying in and the buildings falling down. Amazing how many times the same footage could be watched without the shock receding. Tony found it hard to take his eyes off the screen, though Abby almost never looked.

Rare for him, he didn't do most of the talking. She did, and he had trouble following the odd twists and turns her conversation took, her ability to shift from great concentration to great vagueness, from excitement to sadness in a syllable or less. Here and there he was able to catch up, and at times the conversation was almost normal, about movies or restaurants or clothes, though they agreed about almost nothing. They wandered from tattoos to def metal to whether that creepy guy in the first Nosferatu might really have been a vampire (Tony thought yes) to the practice of naming every new drink a something-tini (Abby was appalled) to whether Titanic was the worst movie ever or just the worst recently (Abby said ever, Tony said just recently).

It was the longest and strangest conversation of his life. But she seemed like a nice person under all the tattoos and the clanking jewelry and the overcaffeination, and it was the sort of day when you realized that maybe you didn't have too many nice people in your life at the moment and you should be grateful when a new one popped up.

They ate the rest of the Krispy Kremes and drank Caf-Pow, Tony wincing at every sip. Occasionally Ducky would come in, making his own lengthy if disjointed contributions, wondering aloud when the bodies would finally start to come in. At one point they all went to the base infirmary to donate blood, for there were expectations of mass casualties, both in DC and in New York. But late in the day everyone began to realize that there would not be mass casualties, for there were mass fatalities instead. Ducky began to understand that there would not be much in the way of bodies to autopsy, and not much need, either, for it was all too clear how death had come. His age showed in those moments.

By dawn, the sugar and caffeine highs were long gone, and even the cute new reporter at ZNN had apparently gone to bed. When Gibbs came in, grimy and grim, Abby was curled up on her futon. Tony was sitting on the floor, his Zegna jacket neatly folded in his lap and his head resting against Abby's knees. They were both dozing. Gibbs nudged Tony and said, "I told you to go home."

"He's been keeping me company," Abby said. "My lab. I get to say who stays or goes."

"You should go home and get some rest," Gibbs said to Abby. "Most of the physical evidence will be handled by the FBI or the FAA. But there will be ID work, a lot of it." He winced. "DNA analysis more than anything. There's not much left. But you'll be busy enough once it starts coming in."

"Where are you going, Gibbs?"

"I have no idea," Gibbs said, and left them.

"He's right," Abby said. "I guess I should go home. And your Mob buddies are probably wondering where you are."

"I guess."

He sounded so dispirited. Abby thought it was awful to send his nice aura back to the Mob knowing that neither NCIS nor the FBI would be helping. "Do you bowl?" she asked.

"I'm a phys ed major," he said. "I actually took a bowling class. But I won't bowl duckpins. That is not bowling."

She looked at him more closely. "How do you feel about bowling with nuns?"

He frowned. "It depends. Do you use them as balls or pins?"

And she laughed, a little too much and a little too loud, but it was a relief just the same. She hugged him, hard, and after a second he hugged back. "I'll call you," she said. "Sister Rosalita is going to _love_ you. She's never met a Big 10 quarterback before."

Back in Baltimore, Tony drifted over to Vincenzo's. It was just after nine, but most of the crew was there, drinking coffee and eating breakfast, and the TVs were showing the same pictures over and over that they'd been showing in Abby's lab.

"Where you been, Tony?" Steve asked. "I called like 20 times. We thought maybe bin Laden'd gotten you."

"I was in Washington," Tony said without thinking.

"What were you doing there?"

It was the closest he'd ever come to a slip, but he caught himself, and fell back into a good lie. "I just wanted to go," he said. "I just wanted to see things myself."

"So what did you see?" Vitalia asked.

"There are jets flying combat patrol over the city, and this morning there were MPs with automatic weapons on the street corners. It was unbelievable." He searched for some more images from the TV to bolster his story. "You could see the smoke from the Pentagon everywhere. And I saw those Congressmen sing God Bless America. It was—it was kinda nice, actually."

"Well, of course it was," Macaluso said. "We're Americans too, damn it. Where the hell is Lenny? Steve can't work the cappuccino machine to save his life."

"You should call the mayor," Vitalia said.

"Why should I call the mayor?" Macaluso asked.

"To remind him that Little Italy stands behind its mayor in these dangerous times." Vitalia smiled. "There'll be money in this, Mike."

"Money?" Macaluso asked. "How? We're not going to find bin Laden down at Sabbatini's."

"All sorts of money," Vitalia said. "There'll be all kinds of construction. Making buildings more secure. We need to get in on this."

"And the docks," Tony said.

"Construction at the docks?" Macaluso asked.

"No," Tony said, "increased security. There'll be increased security everywhere, but especially at the docks."

Vitalia gave him a measuring look. Tony thought he handled it well. "That's good thinking, Tony," he said. "Opportunity, but problems too. We really need to be in on this, Mike."

"You mean it could make getting the stuff from Mexico in a lot harder? They won't be looking for drugs," Macaluso said.

"They'll be looking for nukes mostly," Tony said, "but they'll look at everything a lot harder."

"How do you know this stuff?" Macaluso asked.

Movie references to save my life for a thousand, Alex. "The Fourth Protocol," Tony said. "Michael Caine. Pierce Brosnan before he was James Bond. Smuggling in all the components of a nuclear bomb, disguised as ordinary stuff. Caine's the customs inspector who figures it all out."

"What a memory," Vitalia said. "I guess all the time you spend watching movies hasn't been wasted after all. Having new inspectors at the dock might be a problem."

"Is this your way of telling me to drop the business?" Macaluso asked.

"Of course not, Mike. We'll just need to rethink. Be more careful. And we'll have other opportunities to exploit as well. Right now, though, we want to look good for the mayor and get in on whatever new business there is. We have to let the Montefiore thing go for now. We don't need the attention."

"I'm not giving up the business to those runts up on Reservoir. We were here first. This is our town."

"I'm not asking you to, Mike. We'll take care of it somehow. Right, Tony?"

"Right," Tony said. He hoped that Vitalia was looking at him as another clear-eyed businessman who'd just taken a step up in the organization—and not as a rat who'd just shown his tail.


	14. Chapter 14 Threat assessments

14 Threat assessments

Gibbs found out where he was going the next day, and it wasn't back to Baltimore for a joint NCIS-FBI-BPD sting against the Mob, much less the investigation of one lone drug-dealing petty officer. Now that the threat had become real in a way no one had imagined, it seemed the perfect time to make sure this particular threat wouldn't recur in some similar but ghastly form. Gibbs and every other experienced agent were sent home to pack a bag and then head out. He spent the next four weeks ping-ponging his way around the globe, inspecting Navy facilities and docks and airports, probing for weaknesses. Fortunately Pacci knew how to work the laptop, and he had the unhappy chore of typing up Gibbs's dictation.

It was a staccato, rapid, furious monologue. Mike Franks had been warning for years that something terrible would happen, far worse than the '93 attack on the World Trade Center or the Cole. But attention always wandered away, other priorities always intruded, and somehow the big things never got done. Gibbs had no way of knowing whether all this angry reporting—about sleeping guards and malfunctioning metal detectors and half-baked procedures only occasionally followed—would get into the hands of someone who could actually do something. More likely, he thought, there were too many reports being generated for any of them to ever be read or acted on in any thoughtful way. And perhaps it wouldn't matter, for the next one would come in some completely unexpected direction. If bad people wanted to hurt you they could always find a way. Gibbs was pretty familiar with that universal law.

Still, it had to be done, and Gibbs had to hope it would turn out to be worth doing. The federal money taps were being opened full bore, and with luck at least a little of it would be put to good use. On one of his infrequent calls back to the office he heard from Abby that all the wonderful things were coming after all—new trucks, even more computers, eye scanners. The old communications room, with its heavily padded, unventilated secured communications booth and single encrypted phone, was being ripped out and a state-of-the-art new videoconferencing facility installed, something called the Multiple Threat Assessment Center. "With worldwide, live, instantaneous satellite hookups," Abby said.

"They'll never finish the renovations," Gibbs said.

"Oh, they're finishing lickety-split. We're a priority now. They've even finished the painting and the carpeting. The MTAC should be operational on December 1. It's amazing what they can get finished when they want to. Ducky got to pick out a new autopsy van this week, and he's getting a digital liver probe and lots of other cool things. Now if we could just get him to let Gerald do the navigating."

"It'll take more than a new van to do that."

But mostly Gibbs kept his head down and did his work. Only occasionally, in an unfamiliar rack on a destroyer or before he nodded off on a cargo, he would realize that he was counting the days until the end of October, because he figured that was the date that DiNozzo's undercover assignment would have to end. The young detective struck Gibbs as the type that would get reckless and push his luck as his deadline drew near. Gibbs wondered if he should have been a lot more direct with Friendly, telling him to pull DiNozzo that first night, or gotten Fornell to help him, even in the madness after 9/11, to convince BPD that this undercover assignment was a loser and a needless danger.

Gibbs wondered if DiNozzo understood how right he'd been when he said he'd be finished in Baltimore. Worse case scenario was getting blown and getting fed to the crabs or catching a handful of bullets from a Gold Top Tec 9. Getting pulled after nearly six months with no successful bust wasn't much better. He'd have a giant target on his back, and while the Baltimore Mob might hesitate to go into West Baltimore, it could certainly get to BPD Headquarters or Fells Point or wherever the detective found squeaky girls.

And he'd probably be finished even if he succeeded. DiNozzo didn't seem the type to be bashful about his accomplishments, and even lieutenants who wanted to be captains didn't like to be shown up by junior detectives. He might also find it difficult to go back to the sad routine of a Baltimore Homicide detective, standing over the bodies of dead drug dealers and dead drug users on desolate corners where no one lived and no one spoke to police officers. And if he was the officer who'd made the allegations about troubles in the evidence department, there would be plenty of administrative yahoos above him that would want to shut him up or shove him out the door, discredited.

But what troubled Gibbs most was the possibility that a good young officer would be wasted either way. Fornell was too right when he wondered if DiNozzo was ever under adult supervision. He certainly didn't seem to be in Baltimore. Gibbs suspected that DiNozzo was running his sergeant as effectively as he'd run that basketball game, or, according to Sister Rosalita, the backfield at OSU. No responsible sergeant would have let an officer that inexperienced go deep undercover with so little preparation and so little backup. Gibbs trusted his gut, but he knew his gut had been seasoned by good hard training. Even if DiNozzo succeeded somehow—and the odds were against him—he would still need the same, someone who could teach the cowboy to know the difference between a longshot and plain recklessness, between trusting your instinct and assuming that real life would work out like a movie.

Of course the future career of Anthony DiNozzo wasn't Gibbs's responsibility, and he was glad of it. But the truth was he'd be relieved when October was over, and he could stop worrying about the day he'd hear that DiNozzo had been fished out of Baltimore Harbor.

At about the same time that Gibbs wasn't thinking about the future career of Anthony DiNozzo, someone else was taking an interest in the future career of Anthony DiComo. One afternoon in early October Mark Vitalia asked Tony to drive him to an outer suburb. Tony was a little wary; it seemed to him that Vitalia had been watching him a lot lately. No one else seemed to be treating him any differently, and his inner alarm wasn't going off, but it kept him on his toes. In any case, he figured, he was safe enough driving one guy. Vitalia wasn't the type to do the killing himself.

Tony waited in the car while Vitalia, sober-looking and suited, did his business in a low-slung suburban medical center, and when Vitalia came out, he asked, "Curious?"

"I'm guessing you needed a prescription," Tony said.

"Good guess." Vitalia buckled himself in. "I've been thinking about you, Tony, and I'm not sure you're in quite the right place."

Now his hackles were rising. "Is this about that mess with the Navy cops?"

"No, not really. Fermatti says it was a bad arrest. In any case, I think those guys are too busy chasing bin Laden to worry about us."

"You want me to leave?"

"Not at all." Vitalia sighed. "Most of the younger guys, they've seen the Godfather and the Sopranos, and it's all about the gangster side. They want to carry guns and own the street. They don't know their history. We never started this thing to be gangsters, Tony. We started this because we were immigrants in a hostile country. Things were closed to us. We had to find other ways to make a living and care for our families."

Tony thought: Yeah, I've heard the stories. But my grandfather made an honest living and I'm a policeman. What's your excuse? Instead, he lied, "My father wasn't around. I didn't grow up in the business. So I guess maybe I don't have the same feeling for some of the traditions that other guys do. I just want to get along."

"Of course. But there are lots of ways to get along. I notice you don't date any of the girls at Vincenzo's."

The girls at Vincenzo's were too hard-looking for a guy used to cheerleaders and nice young secretaries. Tony said, "I don't like to piss where I eat."

"Good answer, but you could watch your language a little. You should look for a nice girl, one who can keep a good house and not have unreasonable expectations. It's never too soon to think about the future, Anthony."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You've said some things that make me think you're a smart guy. That maybe you should be more on the business side of the business. Maybe it's not as glamorous as carrying a gun. But we make far more money on this side than we do on other things. A man who's interested in the future, who'll have a nice family to provide for, might be interested in that."

Getting tangled up in Medicare scams wouldn't get him the Block shooters or tie Vitalia and Macaluso to those killings or tell him when the latest meth shipment was coming in and time was running out, but he said, "You think I could do that?"

"I think you could, if you're interested."

"I'm interested in doing whatever you and Mr. Macaluso think I should be doing."

"Good," Vitalia said. "Right now we have to keep our eyes focused on not letting this Gold Top thing get out of hand and on getting in line at the mayor's office. When things have settled down a little, I can start showing you the ropes. I think you have a bright future, Anthony."

You have no idea, Tony thought, but he said, "I'm really looking forward to working with you. I just want to help the ballclub." He smiled. "Bull Durham."

"What?"

"It's a baseball movie. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains."

"You and the movies," Vitalia sighed. "And you shouldn't be wasting so much time playing basketball at Patterson Park. It might be dangerous."

"I don't think anyone from the Gold Tops is going to come that far east. But," Tony hesitated, and then went ahead. "Some of the guys that play at Patterson play all over the city. Some hustling, some just playing. You never know what you might hear."

Vitalia laughed. "Oh, Anthony, you are full of surprises. You're never really wasting time, are you? Have you heard anything interesting?"

"Not yet," Tony lied.

"You be sure," Vitalia said, "that if you hear anything I hear it first. I wouldn't want Steve or the others to do anything rash."

"Of course not."

Vitalia said, "I'm glad we've had this little talk. For now, though, it's just between us. We'll get things worked out soon enough."

Not soon enough for me, Tony thought, but he just said, "I'm looking forward to it." And when he dropped Vitalia off at Vincenzo's, he thought: Damn, I'm good at this. Even the Mob wants to promote me. It was almost as good as an autumn Saturday afternoon at Ohio Stadium.


	15. Chapter 15 Tell him yourself

15 Tell him yourself

Gibbs's tour of every last nook and cranny of the Navy ended on Columbus Day weekend. He came home to a thick layer of dust and an angry note, now yellowing, from Stephanie. Somehow he'd never gotten around to digging through The Pile and signing the divorce papers. Another bit of unfinished business.

On Tuesday he went down to Abby's lab. "How come you never bring souvenirs?" Abby asked. "Or send postcards?"

"I've been busy."

"I've been busy, too, but I would have sent postcards."

"What have you been busy with?"

"Grim stuff," she said. "Lots of DNA identification. Otherwise, everyone's been out of town. There's no real investigating going on here."

"You don't look grim," Gibbs said. "You look guilty."

"Me?" Abby yelped. "You're the one that hasn't returned any calls for nearly a month."

"I didn't have my phone. I had a satellite phone."

"You could have used your satellite phone to check the messages on your regular cell. The messages aren't on the phone, Gibbs. They're out in the ether. You can access them from any phone."

"You'll have to show me again," Gibbs muttered.

"Stephanie has been calling me," Abby said. "_Please_ take care of that."

"The papers are on my desk."

"I love you, Gibbs, but I'm not digging through that pile for you. And I'm not taking any more calls from Stephanie."

Gibbs's eyes narrowed. "You still look guilty."

"Well," Abby said, "I do have something to confess."

"You've been in touch with DiNozzo."

"How did you—oh, well, you always know. We went bowling."

"You took DiNozzo bowling? With the nuns?"

"With the nuns. It was, um, interesting."

"I bet."

"I mean, he's a really good bowler and he has a great vintage shirt, so he fit right in. We _crushed_ the Gardening Club. And Sister Rosalita just loves him. They talked football all night."

"But."

"Well, he does talk a lot. Even around the sisters he has no inner censor. And he got the waitress's phone number. Also the phone number of Sister Catherine's niece. Also the phone number of a girl three lanes over. And Gibbs, he actually said he'd take her to…" Abby winced. "The DiNo-zone. Like end zone, I guess. I don't think he knows that the ozone is part of the stratosphere."

Gibbs just rolled his eyes.

"And I'm acting as your secretary with Tony, too. First of all, he's been promoted. In the Mob, not at BPD."

"Promoted? To what, head whacker and chief movie critic?"

"Vitalia wants to teach him the Medicare scam business."

Gibb sighed. "That's not going to get us any closer to the meth or the shooters."

"But Medicare fraud is a crime, right? They got Al Capone on tax evasion. Tony's a little disappointed, too. It's not nearly as glamorous as hunting for bin Laden. But that's not all." She handed a post-it note with a single word on it to Gibbs.

"Zipper?" Gibbs asked. "What does this mean?"

"Zipper is the Montefiore shooter. Maybe."

"Who the hell is Zipper?"

"Tony's not sure. He got the name from someone he played basketball with at Patterson Park, who plays with someone who plays with someone who maybe knows something. I might have left a someone out."

"Great," Gibbs said. "Zipper. That's helpful."

"It's more than you had. Tony passed it on to the Gang Unit and also to the guys in the Western and Central Districts. It might to lead to something. But I got nothing from the other Baltimore evidence. The gun used to kill Pat Montefiore isn't linked to anything else."

"Now all I need is Zipper and his gun. What else have you done, Abs? You're not dating DiNozzo, are you?"

"Of course not. He's not my type. He just doesn't grasp the concept of body art. And he's got some rough edges. I like him, though."

"You can't keep an animal the size of Tony DiNozzo as a pet, Abby."

"I don't want to keep him as a pet." She twisted her hands. "I'm just worried about him, Gibbs. That first night. You asked Tony if he understood what he was saying. What did you mean?"

"When you're undercover, Abs, you're usually at the greatest danger from the people closest to you. Bad, but you have a chance to see it coming. He's just as likely to be targeted by the Gold Tops, and that's something he probably won't see coming."

"But that's not all, is it?" Abby said.

"No. He understands that no matter what happens, the Gold Tops go on selling meth. The best he can hope for is that the violence gets tamped down. No more public shootouts. It's a big risk for a small gain." Not, in fact, a movie-type ending.

"But it's worth it, right? I mean, two people were killed at that Block shootout. You'd take that risk, wouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't put an agent in the field under these circumstances."

"I asked if you would do it, not if you'd ask someone else."

Gibbs shrugged and didn't answer. Abby said, "Now that you're done running around the world, you're going to get back to this, right? Maybe you and Fornell can do what you originally planned to do."

"Fornell's busy. And my job is to investigate the death of a petty officer. I'll work with Baltimore PD to the extent necessary and practical."

"We have to help him, Gibbs. He's one of us."

"We have our hands full as it is, Abby. We can't go around rescuing stray police officers, no matter how well they bowl."

"He's got a good aura, Gibbs. In fact, it goes well with yours. Not as many dark streaks, and the blues and greens are brighter. But a nice match."

Gibbs laughed. "The last thing I need is a loud-mouthed cowboy who can't keep his zipper up and expects to lead his supervisors around by the nose."

Abby didn't laugh. "I know that you would never forgive yourself if something happens to him. So I did help him out a little. And I used some NCIS property doing it."

"What did you do?"

"I made him a digital recorder. It's hidden in a Sony Sport Walkman. No one will notice if he's carrying a Walkman around. And the regular tape machine's in there, so it's not obvious."

"And?"

"I made the digital recorder myself. Mostly. But I also made him a St. Anthony medal."

"I don't see how that's NCIS property."

"Well, the medal isn't—I got that from Sister Rosalita. Did you know that you pray to St. Anthony when you've lost something?"

"So I've heard."

"I put a GPS chip in the medal. That did belong to NCIS. And they're not cheap."

Gibbs sighed. "They're small, aren't they? I bet they get lost all the time. I don't see any reason to report it. Judging from the way they're spraying money around here."

"A lost GPS chip. That's kind of funny."

"I don't see how it will help, Abs. It's not as if he can turn it on when he's in trouble."

"It probably won't. But it makes me feel better. Like he does have backup now. Maybe your gut will tell you when he's in trouble, and I can help you find him then."

"I wouldn't check it on Saturday nights," Gibbs said. "Medicare fraud's a federal crime, I think. It would be funny if this all ended up in Fornell's lap. Tell Tony not to overlook the Medicare stuff. He might still be able to salvage something. Better than doing something really stupid before Friendly pulls him out."

"I'm not your secretary, remember? Tell him yourself."

Someone—probably Cynthia—had divided The Pile into two stacks, but had then added yet more files, so the two piles were only marginally shorter than the original stack. The Piles, and the need to hire a new partner, seemed to belong to a world that no longer existed. Impossible to think about going through all those files of nice young federal agents and nice young FLETC grads and trying to fit one of them into his post-9/11 world. And yet he was back at his desk, faced with all the tasks he'd left undone on September 11th. He was sick of being on the road and yet didn't feel ready to get back into his routine. It just wasn't right. At least the painters were gone. If only they hadn't added purple to the mix.

He didn't have to worry about getting back into his routine for long. Before the day was over, he was confronted with a sight he now dreaded: People gathered around the new TVs. Pacci said, "Someone mailed anthrax to some Congressman."

"Jesus," Gibbs said. Airplanes, then anthrax. Was there a movie with this much craziness? DiNozzo would know it. And would be convinced this mess could be solved in 90 minutes, if only the hero was properly cast.

And, just as on the 11th, Morrow came out of his office. "Gibbs, Pacci. I need you up here."

In the office, Morrow said, "They want you up at the proving grounds in Aberdeen. See Dr. Mallard for a prophylactic prescription. And review biohazard policies with Miss Sciuto before you go."

"Aberdeen, sir?" Gibbs asked.

"They're doing research up there," Morrow said. "Navy personnel are on site. At this point no one knows where the material may have come from. Early reports are that it's highly sophisticated and may have come from a military research lab. Perhaps one of ours."

"Sir, I don't think-"

"I don't want to think so, either, Jethro. But we will need a full review of security measures there and investigations of all Navy personnel. I would much rather have this done in house than leave it to an outside agency. Checking for security breaches is the most important thing now. I want you back here for a full briefing as soon as it's done. Then you can start a more in-depth investigation. I'm sorry, gentlemen. I know I've asked a great deal of you lately. But these are not normal times."

"Of course," Pacci said. "We understand, sir."

"We're on our way," Gibbs said. And it occurred to him that he'd probably spent more evenings with Pacci than he had with Stephanie. This was another day those divorce papers wouldn't get signed.

They spent the better part of two days at the facility at Aberdeen, crawling through their security systems and finding nothing. They spent an afternoon in the NCIS office, debriefing Morrow, who looked a little relieved, finally. "And Jethro," he said. "Don't worry about the hiring. We'll take care of it as soon as the Baltimore matter is closed."

"Aberdeen's not in Baltimore, sir."

"I'm sure expediting won't be a problem. We certainly don't have budgetary issues these days."

"I haven't picked a candidate, sir," Gibbs said, but Morrow had glided away. Sometimes Gibbs wondered if Morrow was losing it.

At least he had a night at home in his basement. In the morning, it would be back to Aberdeen for an indefinite stay. He hadn't had time to think about how NCIS might still lend some assistance to BPD. But, he told himself, the matter would take care of itself soon enough, and the next time DiNozzo slipped off the leash of some too-trusting supervisor, it wouldn't be Gibbs's problem. By his count, DiNozzo's undercover operation had less than two weeks left.

For once, Gibbs's gut was wrong.


	16. Chapter 16 Didn't see that coming

A/N: Thanks so much to all who have read and reviewed. I promise I'll get back to you ASAP. But I'm determined to get this up and finished before next Tuesday.

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16 Didn't see that coming

That next morning, Tony got up early, put on his super-spy Walkman and his too-gaudy St. Anthony's medal, and headed for the gym. He'd been out late the night before, doing the usual hanging out at Vincenzo's, bored and impatient. Everything had gone maddeningly quiet. There had been no more scuffles with the Gold Tops and no talk about any new shipments coming in from Mexico, no talk about changing things at the docks. It was all about pulling together trusted construction crews and what contracts needed to be bid on.

Poor fat Steve was distraught, as were the other heavies. Pat Montefiore still hadn't been avenged, he hadn't even been replaced, and they sensed the streets were slowly being ceded to the Gold Tops without a real fight. Tony was just as disappointed, though he hid it better. He hadn't even learned much more about the Medicare scams. Great, he thought. I've ruined my career so I can take home crumbs about contracting violations. And they might not even _be_ violations. This would never have happened to Donnie Brasco. Not even Donnie Brasco as played by Johnny Depp.

He wasn't entirely surprised to see Vitalia on his doorstep. "You should have called," Tony said. "I was on my way to the gym, but I can go change if you need me to."

"You don't need to change," Vitalia said quietly. "Get in the car, Tony."

Didn't see that coming. But that's why they called it a blindside hit. Tony thought about reaching for his weapon or making a run for it, but there were two other men getting out of the car, and neither was fat Steve or coffee-making Lenny. These guys weren't on the business-suit side of the business. Running or fighting meant dying right now on the street. Getting in the car probably meant dying too, and probably slowly and terribly. On the other hand, it also meant buying time, and who knew what might happen, or how he might talk himself out of this?

"Okay," he said, and thought, Please let this be a day that Abby decides to turn on that chip. St. Anthony, let me get found. And let that damned Walkman work. I might still get the Block shooters.

()

Gibbs and Pacci left DC early, hoping to beat the traffic around Baltimore. Pacci had given up on the Redskins and was trying to get himself hooked on the Ravens, so he'd taken to reading a Baltimore paper. He had finished the sports pages and had turned to the front section just before they hit the Fort McHenry tunnel.

Gibbs saw it out of the corner of his eye, a headline on an interior page: _Grand Jury Investigates BPD Lab_. The story was accompanied by a photograph of Detective Anthony DiNozzo, rumored to be a prime witness and due to be called before the grand jury before the current session closed.

He swerved to the shoulder and slammed the brakes so hard that Pacci nearly went through the windshield. DiNozzo had survived nearly six months undercover only to get his cover blown by the damned _Baltimore Sun_ over the evidence investigation. He dialed Tony's cell and got no answer. His next call was to BPD.

"I know," Friendly said. "Sweet Jesus, we all know. We got a tip that Macaluso's at Vincenzo's. The SWAT team's getting ready now to hit it."

"Give me the address," Gibbs said. He snapped the phone shut before he realized he had no idea how to _find_ the address.

And then he remembered. Thank God Abby liked to come in early. Gibbs didn't bother with pleasantries. "Find DiNozzo," he said.

"I knew he was in trouble," Abby said. "He said he's a Cancer. And Saturn is-"

"Now, Abby."

"Gibbs, these things aren't precise. I can give you a radius, but it's a big radius."

"Just give me the damned radius, Abs."

"He's somewhere at the civilian docks, Gibbs. There are 18 warehouses. He's within a 1000 yards of Warehouse B-6."

He handed the phone to Pacci. "Stay on with her and navigate." And he shoved the car back into early rush hour traffic and into the tunnel.


	17. Chapter 17 Scrambling

17 Scrambling

Anyone can be a good quarterback behind a solid offensive line. Even a guy who, in his honest moments, knows he's not that great a passer. But when the line breaks down and the pocket collapses, it's a completely different game. It's not about who has the strongest arm, it's about who can stay calm when the defense starts pouring through and you can hear linebackers coming from _behind_ you.

Not just anyone can scramble. Not just anyone can hold on to the ball even when you know the hit is coming. Not just anyone can stay upright and keep moving long enough to see there's a downfield receiver who's going to be open by the time the ball gets there, or see the sliver of daylight that means a 15-yard run and a first down if you can just get there fast enough.

Of course, sometimes the line breaks down, no one gets open, daylight doesn't appear, you hold the ball too long, and you eat turf. But Tony DiNozzo was in no position to tuck and roll. He would just have to hold the ball for as long as he could, keep moving around, and hope something would open up.

This play looked as broken as broken could get. He hadn't screwed up his undercover assignment, he'd been outed by the damned _Baltimore Sun_. Fred sure had been right about handling that evidence thing wrong. He was in a warehouse at the docks, tied to a chair. One eye was already swollen shut, the other was halfway there, and he'd lost a crown. His nose was broken. Perhaps more worrisome, his feet were bare. Nothing good could come of that. In any case, the big guys were just getting warmed up.

On the other hand, his Walkman was lying on the floor not too far away. One big guy had torn out the tape—some terrible screechy-scratchy thing Abby had given him—and tossed it away when he realized it was just a Walkman. But as far as Tony's 20/10 eye could see, the little red light was still on. So he had to do what he did best—well, ahem, there were _other_ things he did better, but he certainly wouldn't be doing them here—keep talking. Keep scrambling, stay alive long enough and there was always the chance that someone would find him before too many vital pieces got broken. Where else would Macaluso's goons take him but the docks?

"I'm really disappointed in you, Anthony," Vitalia said.

"Boy, have I heard _that_ before," Tony said. "I got thrown out of boarding school when I was fourteen. I heard it from both my headmaster and my father that time. And you know what's funny? I'm still not sure why I got thrown out. Was it because I stole the clappers from the chapel bells? Or because I felt up the headmaster's daughter?"

Whap. His mouth was so swollen he was already starting to lisp a little. A few more of those and he wouldn't be talking at all. Still, what choice did he have? "So," he said, "I'm kind of honored to have both Mike Macaluso and Mark Vitalia here for the festivities. I wish I'd dressed better. I didn't think you guys liked the wet work."

"We don't like wet work, but we hate rats," Vitalia said.

"And you've even ratted on your own kind," Macaluso said. "You're rat all the way through."

"Hey," Tony said. "That evidence tech screwed up. But he's on administrative leave. Trust me, when they process this crime scene, they'll nail you good and proper." Whap. If I start losing my real teeth, Tony thought, I'm going to be extremely angry. I might even sue.

"What did you hope to accomplish?" Vitalia asked.

"This is a tough town," Tony said, "and we can tolerate a lot. Kill a few druggies, kill a few dealers, okay. But not a shootout down on the Block. A guy should be able to find a good time down on the Block without getting shot in the head, even in Charm City. I tell you what. You give me the names of the Block shooters, and I'll let you off easy." Whap.

To Vitalia, he said, "Why on earth did you get into meth? Why not weed? No one cares about weed."

Macaluso said, "Meth is big. It's going to get bigger."

"The margins are terrible," Tony said. Whap. Go to your left, Anthony. You and Joe Montana, the only right-handed quarterbacks that can roll left. "I bet you have a good thing going with that Medicare scam. Now there's money. And no one cares."

Macaluso said, "This is our town. These are our streets. No one, not the Gold Tops, and certainly not some punk rat police, is going to take them from us."

"The Gold Tops will," Tony said. Whap. "But I bet you have fifty doctors on the Medicare pad, don't you? How much oxy is that a week? Are you clearing 30 grand a month?"

"Fifty," Vitalia said bitterly. "Over fifty on the oxy alone. And in another year it'll be more."

"Sweet," Tony said. "Very smart. And if you tie that into insurance, I'd bet you could clear a hundred."

"We're working on it," Vitalia said. "In another year we'll have doctors in fifteen counties. Not just the drugs, but the billing scams too."

"You set this up yourself?" Tony said.

"You know who runs car accident scams?" Macaluso interrupted. "Damned Mexicans in Los Angeles."

"It's money," Vitalia said.

"It's embarrassing," Macaluso said. "If my old man had lived to see the day when we didn't own the Block and we didn't own all the drug business, he'd be weeping right now."

Vitalia snapped. "Why can't you understand it's a business? All the ways we could make money and never draw the attention of the police. He's right. We steal from Medicare, Medicaid, insurance companies, we never have police poking around in our business. Even the Feds don't care."

"It's degrading," Macaluso said.

And then they really started to argue, and a lot of details about the Medicare thing spilled out, along with some Italian that Tony couldn't follow but figured it had to do with whose mother was a bigger slut. He would have preferred a confession for the Block shootout, or details about the meth shipments. Steve McQueen would have gotten the serious goods. But he was still scrambling, still holding the ball, and the defense was maybe coming undone. Tony DiNozzo was still in the game.


	18. Chapter 18 Citizen's arrest

18 Citizen's arrest

Gibbs found an unattended gate at the eastern entrance. Apparently the threat assessment/tightened security parade hadn't passed through Charm City yet. There were three blocks of warehouses. Outside B-8 there were two dark sedans, with two big guys in tracksuits lounging against them, smoking. Gibbs pulled in behind a stack of containers and killed the engine.

Pacci said, "Friendly says the SWAT team can be here in 15 minutes."

"He may not have 15 minutes."

"We're going to take that warehouse?" Pacci said. "There could be 10 guys in there."

"Two are outside. And there won't be eight guys in there. Three or four, and probably only two of them dangerous. You need more caffeine in your diet." Gibbs checked his clips and handed Pacci a shotgun. "Go around back. I'll take care of the guys at the cars. Wait for my signal."

"Do you see the size of those warehouses?" Pacci said. "How the hell am I going to hear your signal? We don't even have radios."

"You'll know," Gibbs said. "If anyone runs out, shoot them." He winced. "Don't shoot Tony."

"He probably won't be the one running out," Pacci said.

Gibbs carried his NCIS jacket with the bold lettering hidden and his cap stuffed in his back pocket. He walked up to the two guys at the sedans, as friendly and mild as he could manage. "Hey, can you help me?" he asked. "There was no one at the gate."

"You shouldn't be down here," one guy said.

"You really shouldn't," the other agreed.

Gibbs saw Pacci slip past. "My aunt's piano is in warehouse B-6. I'm supposed to sign for it before they'll release it to the movers."

"Your aunt's piano?"

"Yep."

The wiseguys exchanged amused glances. "You need to go to the front office. They can't help you down here."

"So where's this office?" Gibbs asked.

And when one guy pointed, he kneed him hard and gave him a good kick to the head on the way down. The other guy went down just as easily. Wiseguys, he thought. Nothing without guns in their hands. He found keys and got them both into the trunk. He cut the tires and put on his jacket and cap.

The warehouse door was ajar. The warehouse itself was blessedly mostly empty. Four guys, two in suits and probably not up for serious any action. Two hitters. Neither was holding a weapon at the moment. DiNozzo was tied to a chair, obviously not having a good day but not yet dead, either. Well, here goes.

"This is Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS. This building is surrounded. Put up your hands, now. No sudden moves."

"NCIS?" Vitalia said. "What the hell?"

"You do not want to mess with this nutcase," Tony said. "Trust me."

"I think it's just you," Macaluso said. "And you wouldn't want this nice policeman to get hurt, would you?"

"Just try it," Gibbs said. But he didn't wait and shot the hitter closest to Tony.

"Son of a bitch!" Macaluso screamed.

"Now that's how it's done," Tony said, "if your name is Dirty Harry."

"All of you," Gibbs said. "Down on the ground. Now."

"Do it," Vitalia said. "He's a Navy cop. This is another bum arrest. Just get down, Mike, before he blows your head off."

"He's the smart one, Mike," Tony said. "Get down on the ground."

Pacci had figured that the gunshot was the signal, or at least needed some investigation, and he came in. "You keep them covered," Gibbs said, and untied Tony.

"Good thing there was no one at the back," Pacci said.

"Abby?" Tony asked.

"The GPS chip worked."

"Abigail must be the patron saint of electronics. Or bowling. Or both? I usually slept through catechism."

And now that the danger was over, there was a blast of sirens. "I have no idea how we're going to explain this," Tony said. "You're out of your jurisdiction and you shot a guy."

"Citizen's arrest," Gibbs said.

"Oh, that's a good one. Arnold-esque, even without the accent." Tony found that he wasn't nearly as steady on his feet as he'd thought he'd be, and Gibbs had to prop him up. "I don't know where my shoes are. I was starting to worry those guys had seen Payback."

"Or Reservoir Dogs," Pacci said.

"I hadn't thought of that one," Tony said. "Good thing I didn't, I guess. Hey, don't forget the Walkman. There should be some good stuff on that."

"Anything about Montefiore?" Gibbs asked.

"Didn't Abby tell you? Zipper killed Montefiore. It's all about the Medicare stuff. Some Fed's going to be happy about that."

Gibbs smiled. "I know just the right Fed, too."

"I knew from the minute I saw you some Fed would steal my collar. Does it have to be Fornell?"

"He'll make it stick. Come on. You need an ambulance."

"Pfft," Tony said. There was more than a little bloodspray in the Pfft. "I been hit harder by cheerleaders."

"I'm glad I never saw a game at your school."

"Your loss. I'm a _great_ scrambler," Tony said.


	19. Chapter 19 Make the deal

19 Make the deal

There was some good stuff on that Walkman, and that afternoon was a mad dash for warrants and enough policemen and Feds to serve them. Tony gave them the address of the low-slung office in the suburbs, and a good many of Vitalia's doctors were under arrest by nightfall, along with most of Macaluso's crew. Even the guys in the trunk.

Fornell was torn. He was being handed a huge case; he'd put no work into it but he'd get all the glory and all the attaboys at the Hoover Building. On the other hand, it would take months to get this thing shaped up for prosecution and he would be taken off the big terrorism investigations.

"And I'm being handed this by DiNozzo, of all people," Fornell whined. "By way of the most unprofessional, most reckless, most screwed-up undercover assignment I've ever seen."

"Apparently taking down the Baltimore Mob was a two-man job. Suck it up, Fornell. It's not the first collar you've stolen," Gibbs said. "Did he do good work for you in Philadelphia?"

"Yes. He's not without ability. And apparently he can really take a punch."

"Why didn't you hire him, Tobias?"

"Because he's not without liability, either. He's a cocky young man," Fornell said. "And the Bureau doesn't hire cocky young men."

"Why not?"

"Cocky young men turn out disappointing, Jethro. Every so often a wildcard turns up and turns out well. But most of them turn into disappointing middle-aged men on barstools, longing for the good old days. And that's if they don't wreck themselves first. We go with the odds. We like them uniform and biddable. Predictable."

"I don't suppose you were ever a cocky young man."

"I was born forty. The good thing is I'm young for my age now." Fornell sighed. "I'm going to spend so much time in Baltimore getting this unwound that Diane probably will divorce me."

"That's two favors you'll owe DiNozzo."

The cocky young man in question did turn up late that evening, his nose packed, carrying an icebag for his swollen-shut eye, and in the custody of his sergeant—under adult supervision for at least one night. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm a football player," Tony said. "Only thing broken is my nose. I'm good."

"Apparently his jaw is unbreakable," Friendly said.

"It would be," Fornell said.

"Why are you here?" Gibbs asked.

"I wanted to see," Tony said. "It's the biggest collar of my life so far." Gibbs winced at the _so far_. "Not that I'll get any credit for it. They're all federal charges. BPD's gonna be pretty pissed that I spent six months undercover just for the Feds to horn in."

"We still have the attempted murder of a police officer," Friendly said.

"We're still working out the details," Fornell said. "Too soon to tell who'll go first or what all the charges will be."

"But we'll be last," Friendly said. "That's what happens when you Feds step in."

Gibbs saw again the little brother under the policeman's bruised face. He thought: I'm probably going to regret this when he asks for a press conference or a meeting with some director. But he went ahead anyway. "This is your collar, Tony," he said. "What do you want out of it?"

Tony said, "I want the Block shooters."

"Can't do it," Fornell said. "The recording mentions the Block shootout but no details. We don't have it."

"You can get it," Gibbs said.

"We have these guys cold on fraud," Fornell said. "I can't justify making a deal with any of them."

"You have these guys cold because this guy was dumb enough-"

"Hey," Tony said.

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "Dumb enough to take the risk and smart enough to survive it. Make the deal, Fornell."

Fornell sighed. "When you look like that I understand why Diane hates you. I can try to make the deal. I can't guarantee anyone will take it."

"Pitch Vitalia. He's the smart guy," Tony said. "He wasn't a bad consigliere, Macaluso was a bad don. Vitalia'll take the deal."

"You would have to make a Godfather reference," Fornell griped.

"He was willing to kill you, Tony," Friendly said.

Tony shrugged. "Well, I was a rat. But this whole thing started because of the Block shootout. I want that closed."

"And everyone's case gets closed except yours, Gibbs," Fornell said. "Seems kind of fitting."

So Tony got to watch while Fornell talked to Vitalia and Gibbs loomed in the corner. Vitalia was lawyered up of course, but Fornell opened the discussion by saying, "Your lawyer's not here because I'm not going to ask you any questions. I'm just going to talk. If you want your lawyer when I'm done, we'll get him. And if you decide you want a new lawyer, one that's not also representing Mike Macaluso, we'll get you one."

Vitalia drummed his fingers on the table and said nothing.

"Two people were killed at a shootout in the Block neighborhood earlier this year. The shootout was between your people and the Gold Tops. Ballistics tells us that your people fired the shots that killed those two people."

Fornell slid a photograph over. "John McGovern, aged 58, of Timonium. His wife was institutionalized for early onset Alzheimer's late last year. His death means she'll have no one to look after her for the last years of her life."

Fornell slid another photograph over. "Kimberly Parsons, aged 35. Worked as a waitress at the Tiger Club. Mother of two. They're in foster homes now."

Vitalia didn't look at the photographs.

"We would like the names of these shooters. We'd like the weapons. We'd like to tie these deaths to Mike Macaluso. And we're prepared to be very generous to the first guy in the door that can give us these things."

Vitalia stopped drumming, leaned back, and thought a bit. "How generous?"

"Ah," Fornell said. "I can't answer that until you sign a waiver."

Vitalia bit his lip, then said, "I'll sign."

"Four years in a minimum security federal corrections facility on the fraud charges."

"What facility?"

"A nice one. With generous phone and visitation rights. Email. You won't go to Marion, that's for certain. I can't say the same for Macaluso. Though he might get life in the Maryland State Penitentiary instead. Of course you might get the same if you don't give me the Block shooters."

"Two years."

"Four. Versus Marion. Or the Maryland State Pen. I hear they might get air conditioning next year."

Vitalia hesitated. "I'm not sure about delivering the weapons."

"You give us the names and the testimony, we can make the case."

"I'm not a rat," Vitalia said.

"No," Fornell said, "you're a businessman. I'm making you a very attractive proposition. DiNozzo says you're the smart one. Are you?"

"Not as smart as I thought I was," Vitalia said. "But I am a businessman."


	20. Chap 20 You're good at finding DiNozzo

20 You're good at finding DiNozzo

Gibbs left Fornell to finish cleaning up the mess. He and Pacci spent four days at Aberdeen, crawling through the lives and paperwork of everyone there, mercifully finding nothing. And then he went home, hoping that he'd actually get to stay there for a while.

On the first workday back in the office, he finally dug through The Piles and found the divorce papers, signed them, and mailed them off. He thought: If I ever do get a tattoo, it'll say No More Wives. In mirror writing on my forehead, where I can see it every day. From here on I'm just sticking to the job. Then the phone rang.

"Hey, is this Tibbs?"

"No, it's Special Agent Gibbs."

"Oh, the handwriting's terrible. Hey, listen, this Detective Harrison, Baltimore PD. Vice."

Not another one that needs rescuing, Gibbs thought. "Why are you calling me?"

"Well, last night we arrested this crazy little runt down on the Block. He was whaling the tar out of this hooker."

"Detective," Gibbs said, "this is NCIS. I think you have the wrong Gibbs."

"No, it's the right number. Anyway, he's this runty little kid who tells me his name is Michael Jordan. As if. We don't have his prints in the system. But he's got a 9 mil stuck in his pants, a Gold Top tat, and this crazy scar on his arm. Like his blind grandmother sewed it up with 100-pound fishing line, you know? Looks like a zipper."

Zipper.

"So I got this BOLO from Tony DiNozzo in Homicide a few weeks ago, for guys named Zipper and Tec 9s. The BOLO says to call you with any hits. This guy doesn't admit his name's Zipper, but that's what I'd call him. So do you want this guy?"

Of course it was DiNozzo, serving up another collar he wouldn't get credit for. "Yes, I want this guy. I'll pick him up this afternoon."

"Tony said there'd be a sixpack in it for anyone who got a solid hit on the BOLO."

Gibbs was surprised he hadn't thrown in popcorn and two tickets to some movie, too. "A sixpack it is," Gibbs said.

"Rolling Rock. In bottles. And not ponies, either."

"A deal's a deal."

"Hey, for a Fed, you're a decent human being, Tibbs. And I'll do you a favor in return. Don't play pool with DiNozzo." The detective hesitated. "Don't play HORSE with him either. He's a straight up police, but he'd hustle the Commissioner, you know?"

Gibbs thought this was the strangest case he'd ever worked. **_Nothing_** had gone as expected and yet at the end of the day all the bad guys were present and accounted for. If he'd been a football guy, Gibbs might have thought this was the greatest broken play in the history of policing, a world-class scramble. But he wasn't a football guy. He did find himself smiling. No wonder Friendly thought every squadroom needed a DiNozzo.

He went up to tell Morrow, but only Cynthia was there. "I'm going to Baltimore to pick up the Montefiore shooter," he said.

"You're going to Baltimore? Good." She handed him an envelope. "That's for Detective DiNozzo. From the Director."

"I said I'm going to pick up a suspect, not see DiNozzo."

"They're both in Baltimore, right?" Cynthia said. "And you seem to be pretty good at finding DiNozzo."

"What's in there?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't open the Director's outgoing mail," Cynthia said primly.


	21. Chapter 21 But it worked

Again, many thanks to all who have read and reviewed. And now it's time to leave Charm City and enter the DiNo-zone. Thanks for stopping by, hun.

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21 But it worked

Tony DiNozzo lived in the southeastern end of Mount Vernon, the not-yet-gentrified part, in a beaux arts building that had seen more beau days. The outer lock was broken, and Gibbs was annoyed to see that DiNozzo's name was on the buzzer. He didn't bother buzzing.

"Oh, hey," Tony said, opening the door bare-chested and with a toothbrush still in his mouth.

"You ever think about taking your name off the buzzer?" Gibbs asked.

"Why, you think the Mob will come calling? I'm not worried. I have a gun."

"Jesus, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "You have to wash your gym clothes sometimes."

"I have really strong pheromones, that's why the women love me. And I haven't had time for laundry," Tony said. He'd put down the toothbrush and pulled a T-shirt over his head. "I've done nothing but sit around with lawyers all day. City attorneys, state attorneys, US attorneys. If I never see Fornell again I'll die happy. And the Feds don't buy donuts."

Gibbs shut him up by turning his chin. The bruises on the swollen-shut side were now yellow and green. "That was a pretty good shiner," Gibbs said.

"Not really," Tony said. "I've been hit harder-"

"By cheerleaders, I know. Were they the wrestling squad's cheerleaders?"

"No." Tony smiled in dreamy remembrance. "She taught kickboxing to pay her way through school. She could have taught the Big Unit a few things about the physics of transferring the muscle power of the central core to the far extremities. She taught me a few things." The dreaminess disappeared, replaced by the smirk. "Hey, I was a phys ed major. Here's a tip: Never tell a kickboxer to take her best shot. Even in fun."

Gibbs let that pass.

"So did Harrison call you?" Tony got to work on slicking back his hair.

"I'm here to pick up Zipper. And you owe me six bucks."

"For what?"

"The sixpack."

"It's your collar," Tony said. "You pay him. I did all the work."

"You put out a BOLO."

"And got the intel for the BOLO."

"I rescued your ass, DiNozzo."

"We'll split the difference. I'm not sure whether they tested his Tec 9 or not." Tony sighed. "Not that anyone in Evidence would call me. Maybe it's a good thing the Feds took over."

"You meeting with lawyers today? Dressed like that?"

"No, I'm going to the dentist to get my tooth fixed. I'm going in front of the grand jury next week on the evidence thing. Apparently I don't look trustworthy enough with a broken tooth."

"Shouldn't you have gotten that fixed sooner?"

"It's a crown. I've lost it before. Took an elbow to the face at Purdue."

"Cheerleader?"

"Center. I need to stop going up for rebounds against bigger guys. Especially in garbage time. I'm running late as it is." He put on his letterman's jacket.

"I can give you a ride."

"It's just a few blocks. You mind the walk?"

Gibbs shrugged, but he followed Tony out. "Can you believe they're making me buy a plain navy blue suit?" Tony said. "At Joseph Banks. And no cuff links. I'll look like Fornell."

"Get a haircut, too," Gibbs said dryly.

"What's wrong with my hair?" Tony asked.

It was a mild autumn morning, mostly gray. "This grand jury thing," Gibbs said. "Must have been a big case."

"It was nothing," Tony said.

Friendly had let Gibbs look at the file. And it was nothing, a 17-year-old addict beaten to death in an alley behind a row of strip clubs on the Block after an argument over the $10 rock she'd just bought. Just another sad little death in a city that had hundreds of them a year, the ending of a life so small that it had managed to fall through every safety net that was supposed to catch up the vulnerable. It was the type of killing that probably never made it into the _Baltimore Sun_, even in tiny type on an inside page of the B section.

Except it couldn't be nothing to a detective who had cared enough to crawl through six dumpsters on a cold wet New Year's Day to find the murder weapon. It couldn't be nothing if that detective had looked at a string of mugshots and seen the dissolution of a scared 14-year-old runaway into a prostitute pretty enough for the tourist trade into an addict and then a featureless corpse. It couldn't be nothing if that detective had seen a weary prosecutor decide not to fight a case with messed-up evidence, letting a killer go without even a battery charge. And it certainly couldn't have been nothing to this detective, who'd gone against the advice of an admired sergeant and put himself into the sort of trouble that could permanently mess up a career.

"It was nothing," Tony said again, and Gibbs liked him better for the lie.

"You looking forward to going back to Homicide?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm not going back to Homicide," Tony said.

"Is it the evidence thing?" Gibbs asked.

"No, it's policy. New detectives get rotated around every two years. It was just coincidence that I went to Homicide first. With my luck I'm off to the fugitive squad next."

It might be policy, but Gibbs suspected that if DiNozzo ended up in the quietest corner of BPD, it wouldn't be by chance, and DiNozzo had to realize that too. "You care so much about being in Homicide?"

"I'm not one of those I'm-a-murder-police-I-work-for-God guys. But at BPD the best police are in Homicide. I don't think I'll get any better hanging around Arson or Robbery."

Gibbs laughed. "I'm surprised that you think you still have things to learn."

Tony said, "I started playing football when I was nine. No one's born a great quarterback. You have to learn all of it. And the best quarterbacks aren't the guys with the strongest arms. They're the guys with the best coaches."

Gibbs found he liked him better for that, too. "You do understand," Gibbs said, "that this was a crazy operation. It shouldn't have worked."

"But it worked," Tony said.

Gibbs couldn't tell whether DiNozzo's sunny response was prompted more by naiveté or narcissism, but both possibilities worried him. "You're not always going to get that lucky. This is a dangerous job, DiNozzo. It's not a movie."

It was the closest Gibbs had seen DiNozzo to real anger. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, things don't always work out. I got _that_ memo a long time ago." More coolly, Tony continued, "Busting into that warehouse wasn't exactly a well-planned thing. If you suit up, you have to be ready to play the game."

Gibbs stopped. "Why are you a policeman, Tony?"

Tony smiled, a perfect, glossy, quarterback-homecoming king-all American-boy smile, an I'm-going-Disney-World smile, even with the broken tooth. "Steve McQueen, remember?" he said. "I'm in it for the badge and the babes."

It was another lie, and Gibbs gave him a hard look, the kind that melted away even the best, most believable fake smiles. The perfect smile did disappear, but it was replaced by a real smile, as if the actor was pleased to have finally found someone who appreciated the depth of his performance. Gibbs wouldn't have answered that particular question either.

"When are you done with the grand jury?" Gibbs asked.

"Next week, I think. With the Macaluso stuff, I don't know."

"Give your notice today. You can start in three weeks."

"Start in three weeks? Are you offering me a job?"

"Apparently," Gibbs said.

"Why?"

"You need adult supervision, DiNozzo."

"I think I'm a pretty good police already."

"You can be better."

Tony smiled, his real smile again. "So you do think I'm already a pretty good police." The smile faded. "I don't know. I'm a policeman. I'm not a Fed."

"We're not the FBI. We're not uniform. Or predictable."

"You sure aren't. Have you heard of the fourth Amendment?" But after that they walked the better part of a block, and it was the longest Gibbs had ever seen DiNozzo go without running his mouth. "Okay," he said finally.

"I have rules."

"The Freds do, too. I bet they're the same ones. What are yours?"

"There are lots of them. Rule number one: Separate your suspects."

"Duh."

"Rule number four: Wear gloves at a crime scene."

"You do know that I'm already a policeman, right?"

Gibbs smiled. "There are more. They get harder. You'll learn. But it won't be all big busts, DiNozzo. The press won't always be alerted."

"I loved playing football," Tony said. "I mean, I loved everything about it. Even the practices and watching film. Lifting weights. Learning the playbook. It's a lot of work and maybe only a few plays really go well. Once a week. If you're lucky."

"DiNozzo. If you're going to work for me you're going to have to stop comparing everything to football."

Tony looked at him sympathetically. "You're a baseball guy, right? I thought so. I can stop the football thing, I think. But I talk. It's how I figure things out."

"I'll let you know when you're talking too much. But I think we're going to need a few more special DiNozzo rules. Number two is no dating Abby."

"Not a problem," Tony said. "I mean, she's a great girl, and a beautiful one, and she saved my life for no reason except I'm a good bowler. But I'm not getting a tattoo for anyone."

"Good."

"I can still go bowling with her though, right?"

"You might want to stop picking up the nuns' family members."

"Okay. But I have some rules, too. Or at least requests."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "You won't find me as easy to manage as Fred Friendly."

"I was a rookie patrolman in Peoria. I was a rookie plainclothes in Philadelphia. I was a rookie detective in Baltimore. I don't think I should be called rookie any more."

"At NCIS we call them probies."

"That's even worse."

"Fair enough," Gibbs said. Bringing down the Baltimore Mob, even on fraud charges, did deserve a little respect.

"And I won't call you sir."

"You're damned right you won't. I work for a living."

"So, is it…Leroy?" Tony asked, wincing.

"It's Gibbs," Gibbs said. "Or Boss."

"Okay, Boss."

"And don't tell me about some movie with a character named Boss. Or Gibbs."

"Okay, Mistah Tibbs. Hey, last time, I promise."

Gibbs handed over the envelope from Morrow. Tony opened it, pulled out an application form, and said, "You cocky son of a bitch. You were so sure I was going to say yes?"

"I wasn't even sure I was going to ask." Morrow was one smart man. But it occurred to Gibbs that he hadn't really just made up his mind. That had been done when Tony asked Fornell for the Block shooters, or when Gibbs had seen the earnest and angry policeman in the NCIS conference room, or even earlier, when he'd seen the detective smiling, thinking he was running the game even from the backseat and in handcuffs. Fornell was right: he was a cocky young man. But Friendly was right, too: Tony DiNozzo was a real police.

Some degree of what was most irritating to Gibbs about DiNozzo, his preening, his endless, uncensored, artless chatter, was in fact art, showing all the lesser details so that the more important ones would go unnoticed. No wonder Tony had taken to undercover work so well; whatever made him a policeman was already mostly undercover, beneath the kickboxing cheerleaders, squeaky girls, and movie references. Gibbs could live with the idea that he might never get answers to any of the Why questions. He didn't like giving those answers himself. Gibbs had a gut feeling this cocky young man wouldn't be a disappointment. And he already knew how to work the remote.

"Three weeks," Gibbs said. "Eight o'clock. If you're late, don't bother showing up."

"Eight?" Seeing Gibbs's look, he said, "Eight it is, Boss."

"And you owe me three dollars."

Gibbs picked up Zipper and his Tec 9 at Central Booking and then headed south. A sign told him that he was leaving Charm City. He hadn't found the city all that charming and he was glad to be leaving it. But he figured out what he was doing in Baltimore. He'd closed his case and annoyed Fornell. He'd finally set Stephanie free from the sad little mistake of their marriage. He'd freed himself from the weight of The Piles and the question of what to do next. He'd found what he needed without having to dance on the Mall in his pajamas. The universe didn't take hints and it worked in strange ways. But it worked.


End file.
